


Be With Me Always

by TheHufflebean (SevralShips)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (and that something is definitely Remus Lupin), (but it's got a lot of screentime), (description of actually giving an ear piercing), (it's an ear), (very brief mention), 69 (Sex Position), Afterlife, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood Magic, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Body horror/gore including the following:, Bottom Sirius Black, Bring Back Black, Canon-divergent in OotP, Character Study, Dark Magic, Dissociation, Dreams and Nightmares, Ear Piercings, Established Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Face-Fucking, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, Interiority, M/M, Mutual Pining, Necromancy, Panic Attacks, Performing Dark Magic in the name of twoo luv, Pining across dimensions, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resurrection, Self-Hatred, Severed body part, Splinching (Harry Potter), Suicidal Thoughts, The moral compromises of a grieving Remus Lupin, Tooth-Pulling, Top Remus Lupin, gothic/Byronic horror vibes, imposter syndrome, remus lupin character study, something goes bump in the night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 63,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22256608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevralShips/pseuds/TheHufflebean
Summary: Harry’s words spiraled out through Remus' mind in dangerous fractals. What exactly did ‘gone’ even mean? He had thought Peter was gone for a dozen years, only to find that he was alive. The entire Wizarding World had thought Voldemort gone until he had returned! Why should he assume the permanence of Sirius’ death when that line was blurred, when that line was as fragile as the flutter of a Veil? Could fabric not be torn?In which Remus Lupin must come to terms with third chances coming at a very dear price.*Written for Fireside Tales 2020*
Relationships: Remus Lupin & Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin & Original Male Character(s), Sirius Black & Remus Lupin, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 65
Kudos: 174
Collections: RS Fireside Tales Vol.2





	1. Beyond the Veil

**Author's Note:**

> It was absolutely wonderful to have a chance to participate in Fireside Fest! I loved everyone's fics last year (I urge you to check them out if you have not!) and jumped at the chance to be a part of it!
> 
> A huge thank you goes out to the wonderful mods whose dedication makes the Fest possible (and who are fantastic creators in their own right), to the lovely folks in the Discord who kept a stream of spooky pictures and encouragements going for three straight months, and especially to my inimitable friend and beta, [KittyCargo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyCargo/pseuds/KittyCargo/works?fandom_id=136512)! Without her patience, creativity, and enthusiasm, this story would be so much less than it is. 😻
> 
> And an actual note on the story: please don't disregard the tags/warnings! If you're squeamish about light/moderate gore or sensitive to issues around sanity or PTSD, perhaps tread lightly. It is much more important to me that you all keep yourselves safe than read my indulgently dark fic!
> 
> ~~~
> 
> (Prompt T29)  
> I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always -- take any form -- drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!  
> —Emily Brontë, _Wuthering Heights_

_18 June, 1996_

Sirius Black was fifteen years old when he talked James Potter into helping him pierce his ear.

Wormtail had squirmed with disgust at the prospect, but Sirius and James had been perfectly in sync as ever, an echo chamber for their own rubbish ideas. The spirit of _rebellion_ had got its claws properly into Sirius by that point and in London he’d seen a punk bloke with a face and ears full of metal. By his reasoning, he displayed great restraint in only wanting _one._ James and Sirius had been giddy with summertime and pissed from stolen firewhiskey, and they would not be deterred.

They had had their hearts set on using a Piercing Charm, but when James had tried to perform the spell with a quill he mistook for his wand in his drunkenness, Remus had intervened. He may have failed to talk them out of it entirely, but he could at least keep James from inadvertently botching the spell. Remus had allowed himself to become just barely tipsy, as was his custom in those days. Sirius had let his hair grow out and kept proudly tousling its shaggy perfection, which had made Remus edgy, unable to relax. Let his friends get boisterous, they were allowed. Remus couldn't afford to lower his inhibitions. As he was the soberest among them, he had volunteered to do the deed himself, to Wormtail's disbelief.

He had tidily transfigured a knut into a needle, then sanitized it with a _Scourgify_ and a flame for good measure. Sirius had praised his wandwork effusively (even though it was Transfiguration most third years could have done just as well) and had watched with rapt attention as Remus carefully passed the needle through a wand-flame. Remus had worked desperately to keep his face straight, to not let show what Sirius was doing to his lovesick fifteen-year-old guts, and had managed it at first.

Until Sirius had repositioned himself with that puppy-like suddenness of his, so much more obvious since they’d all got to know Padfoot. Eager and spontaneous, he had clambered onto Remus, sprawling out with his head in Remus' lap. He had pulled his long hair back to reveal the elegant column of his throat, the pulse fluttering visibly between taut tendon and Adam's apple. His jaw had sharpened with pubescent definition, his pale skin had gleamed with the flush of the whiskey, and his ear had been stupidly perfect, awaiting Remus' needle. The echo of canine submission in the gesture had made Remus clench his teeth against the mad impulse to gnaw at Sirius’ throat as Moony might have done. He had cradled Sirius' face to tilt his head to the correct angle and the feel of the pulse that thudded against the side of his index finger had broken his careful facade of ambivalence, and prudence, and lofty disapproval. The sound that came out of him was too quiet to be a whimper, too quiet to even be audible unless one happened to be laying across his lap.

"It's alright, Moony," Sirius had reassured him, in a voice as muted and irresistible as the pull of the ripening moon, tugging right at Remus’ very bones, "I can take a little pain. I _want_ you to do it."

Remus never knew if Sirius had been goading him, if he had intended the vague innuendo, if he had been genuinely comforting him, or if he had been trying to convince himself not to fear the tiny prick of the needle. Without warning, Remus had moved his hand from Sirius’ jaw, gripped his earlobe between his thumb and first finger, sinking the needle neatly into the soft flesh there. Sirius had tensed but had not yelped or teared up, and Remus did not flinch or look away, even as he wondered at the peculiar satisfaction of having Sirius at his mercy, at marking Sirius’ unmarred flesh, at the red blood that welled up like a jewel, leaving a stark trail against the paleness of Sirius' skin as it rolled through the curved channel of his ear and disappeared into his dark hair.

A second later Sirius had been popping out of his lap, heedless to any pain or mess from the new piercing. He had impatiently let Remus transfigure the embedded needle into a simple earring before moving onto the next thing, as mercurial as lightning flashing across the sky. Remus had been unable to look away from him.

The moment had been brief, but had so defined those years of hungry, early discovery within Remus’ self, that the image of Sirius' ear had been burned indelibly into some internal catalogue of his sexual awakenings (alongside many other images of Sirius).

It was a result of all this that Remus would have known Sirius' right ear anywhere. He had only grown to know it better in subsequent years, besides. Had shared healing salve with him, applying it as gently as possible with trembling fingers and thundering heart, when it inevitably had gotten infected in the following weeks, had whispered all manner of secrets against it, later had ran the tip of his tongue along the same path that that entrancing bead of blood had followed, and had tucked strands of singed black hair behind it after any number of too-close scrapes with Death Eaters. He had tried with all his might to forget it for twelve years only to wind up in his tiny kitchen, careful not to nick it as he cut away hair too matted and dull to possibly belong to the same preening boy he’d known, vibrant and irrepressible.

So when Remus saw Sirius’ ear, lying there on the marble floor at the Apparition point, he recognized it without a shadow of a doubt. It seemed innocuous somehow, sitting there in absurdist incongruity, like some gruesome joke prop from Zonko's. Something Sirius would have thought a laugh at fifteen, in fact, a realistic ear that would give someone a fright if they found it floating in their pumpkin juice.

They had been in such a mad rush to get to Harry, there had hardly been time to acknowledge it. Remus hadn’t even known quite what had happened. They had rematerialized at the Ministry, and Sirius had sworn in pain, clapping his hand to the side of his head. Remus had asked him what was wrong but he had simply pointed his wand at his head and muttered an impatient healing spell before taking off at a run, Remus hurrying after. Sirius had been practically blurred with it, the desperate need to protect Harry as he had failed to protect James, the heady rush of freedom from Grimmauld Place, the relief at being back in the thick of things where he felt useful. Remus had been hard-pressed to keep up. Like any wild animal feeling the elusive tremors of a coming volcanic eruption, the wolf had recognized with a tightness at the back of Remus’ jaw that signature, treacherous Sirius Black recklessness that ended in detentions, and infections, and catastrophe, and long solitary years in prison.

Sirius had been vivid and formidable with that reckless righteous fury, his momentum tearing through the Death Eaters like a cannonball.

And like a cannonball, he had plummeted back to earth with deathly finality. Plummeted _past_ earth, in fact, through the damned Veil to the unfathomable beyond, and left Remus with nothing but his _bloody ear_.

Remus had never been squeamish. _Lycanthropes are not afforded the luxury of delicate stomachs_ , so he had remarked airily to Peter at fifteen as he Transfigured the needle, stupid with suppressed longing and misguidedly swaggering because Sirius had assured him earlier in the evening, devastatingly sincere after two drinks, that if one looked at it right, being a werewolf was actually ‘ _fucking cool_ ’. Remus still probably wasn’t _cool_ , but he was even less squeamish at thirty-six than he had been at fifteen. Since then, he had seen his friends blown to bits in the war, had stitched himself back together in the grisly aftermath of the first few moons without his pack of Animagi, and had worked innumerable thanklessly foul minimum wage jobs to survive on bread and tea.

So he felt uncommonly little revulsion as he kneeled. He lowered himself slowly, as if the ear was a nervous mouse that might scurry away from sudden movement. Moving felt a bit like he was wading through jelly, and it tickled in some back corner of his head that he was likely in shock. Time seemed to skip like a faulty Muggle projector and he missed a few frames; he didn't remember reaching out his arm, but then the ear — Sirius' ear, complete with the little gold ring at the lobe, the same one Remus had made a lifetime ago — was sitting in his hand.

It was cold.

"Oh, Remus... come along now," someone urged, gently tugging him to his feet. Tonks, maybe. Remus found he was beyond knowing or caring. He stuffed the ear in his pocket, as guilty and secretive as a child with a stolen sweet. He was steered away, Side-Along Apparated, and all the while his hand in his pocket curled tighter and tighter, clutching the only part of Sirius he had, like a talisman.

_22 June, 1996_

Sirius’ ear would have looked quite at home at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. It would have been just another macabre specimen in a jar there, but in the cozy, modest Cambrian cottage where Remus had been raised, it looked dreadfully out of place. In the middle of his mam’s scrubbed wooden dining table, where she might have set a jar full of wild dog-roses and pimpernels, he had overturned a mug with a broken handle, using it as a bizarre pedestal for Sirius’ disembodied ear. It sat on the bottom end of the mug, crusty and darkened where once it had been attached to Sirius’ head, but otherwise perfect.

Years of rationing and stretching food when money was tight had trained Remus well in Preservation Charms, and he’d made sure the ear was thoroughly protected from the ravages of time. It would still decompose eventually, Remus knew that. No Preservation Charm could stay the natural order of things forever and eventually this relic would return unto the earth. A normal person might have just taken the Transfigured earring for a keepsake, perhaps would have buried the ear in the garden like a pet gerbil. And he had every intention of doing just that, he reminded himself… Only not quite yet.

It was just as normal, he told himself stubbornly, to want to wait a bit, to want some time to grieve. Catholics had ceremonious wakes, Jewish people sat _shiva_ , the people of the Caribbean held Nine-Nights, and Remus had Sirius’ ear. Much as the word felt strange, he had been, in a sense, widowed. And it wasn’t as though there would be any sort of public service or inpouring of sympathies; Sirius had been a wanted man, Remus was an outcast himself, and their relationship to each other had been largely a secret, besides. He had every right to mourn as he saw fit, and if he saw fit by sitting here and drinking cup after cup of tea at a table with only Sirius’ right ear for company, then by Merlin, he was going to bloody do just that until he learned how in the hell to breathe around the hollowness in his chest.

He shifted his weight, arse gone numb from the hard wooden chair, and realized that though his heart may be hollow, his bladder was not. Remus stood stiffly and shuffled to the small loo, watching dispassionately as his piss turned the water in the toilet dark yellow. He had lost count of how many times he had pissed since Sirius had died. He couldn’t have told if it was a usual amount, anyway, because he couldn’t have told how many days had gone by. Remus had neither slept nor eaten since being delivered home from the Ministry by an extremely worried Tonks. He had merely sat at the table, drinking his way through his teabags, keeping vigil by Sirius’ right ear like some zealous Catholic paying homage to one of their incorrupt relics, preserved in gaudy spectacle ad infinitum. Sirius had been no saint, so perhaps it was fitting that instead of being enshrined in a gilded glass casket, his ear sat limply atop a busted mug. Remus reckoned it must have been two days at least, judging by how the light outside had come and gone, sometimes too dark to quite make out the ear but for the feeble glint of waxing moonlight on the curve of the earring.

When Remus returned to the kitchen, something was disturbing the tomblike stillness. It took him a few blinking moments to realize it was the sound of insistent tapping at the window. He crossed the room, swaying slightly, leaning a bit more of his weight than he should have needed to against the sill. He recognized the tiny, fluffy owl as belonging to the Weasleys’, though its silly name eluded him. He stared at it for another second before opening the window for it, allowing it to flutter inside. It swooped around the room delightedly, squeaking and hooting with profane good humor on so somber an occasion, “Give it here,” Remus said, surprised by the hoarseness of his own disused voice. The owl dropped a scroll of parchment and a parcel far heavier than it looked into his palm obediently and then resumed its happy figure-eights around the cobwebbed light fixture.

Remus collapsed back into his chair by the table and unrolled the letter.

_Dear Remus,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_We were sorry not to see you at the meeting on Tuesday. Nymphadora was in knots, worried that she had made a mistake leaving you alone after the debacle at the Ministry. I tried to assure her of your resilience, but a letter to her wouldn’t be amiss, just to let her know that you’re alright._

_I do hope that you are alright, dear. I hope it will not sound insincere for me to extend my condolences. Sirius and I did not often see eye to eye, but it’s a dreadful thing. Ron is worried about Harry, and of course, I am, too. As if that dear boy hasn’t already been through enough! So little time with his godfather, and I have no doubt he feels guilty about the circumstances! He isn’t at fault, of course, but perhaps it would be better for him to hear that from you than from me? You were closer to Sirius, after all._

_Please write back and ease my mind. Or better yet, come by the Burrow any time, the children miss having you around and I’m sure you could do with a hot meal._

_With sympathy, Molly_

_P.S. Pigwidgeon couldn’t carry the food without me Shrinking it, but I recommend eating it at its normal size if you’d like to avoid indigestion._

Remus read the letter through three times before setting it down, sick with a combination of pique, guilt, and the twisting hunger he’d ignored for more days than he’d first estimated. Apparently, there had been an Order meeting on Tuesday that he’d missed, though he couldn’t for his life have told what day of the week it was today, or how long ago Tuesday had been.

His first reaction was annoyance, offense, even. Molly’s condolences _did_ ring as a bit disingenuous; she and Sirius had done worse than not see eye to eye! She’d never stopped distrusting him, even after she knew of his innocence. Remus had always suspected some of that sprang from her own embarrassment at having unknowingly harbored Peter Pettigrew in her home for over a decade, feeding him scraps from her family's table. It was not simply that, though. She’d had little patience with Sirius’ immaturity, his moodiness, his flair for the dramatic. Remus understood that to a degree, but it still hadn’t made it easier for him to mediate the tensions between the two. More than anything, though, Remus knew that Molly’s distaste for Sirius had sprung from that maternal nature at Molly’s core, her protectiveness over Harry verging on possessiveness and (sometimes fairly) suspecting Sirius as a bad influence as a parental figure.

But Sirius had hardly gotten a chance to be any kind of parental figure to Harry, and now he was gone, and Remus knew Molly meant well but he still found his teeth grinding. Molly had been and now would always be more of a parent to Harry, and while she was a splendid surrogate mum, it was just yet another thing that was not as it ought to have been. As clearly as if it was yesterday, more clearly in fact, Remus could recall the way Sirius had beamed when Prongs and Lily had asked him to be godfather. Remus had looked at his smile and thought _he can’t possibly be the spy_ , and if only his trust hadn’t wavered, if only he’d held onto the warm promise of that smile—

Remus sighed, pushed away his anger at Molly and his anger at himself, and unwrapped the weighty parcel that had accompanied the letter. He peered down at a spread of food fit for a dollhouse, too tiny to easily identify. He pulled out his wand for the first time since casting the Preservation Charms, and muttered _Engorgio_.

The food started growing and didn’t stop; a dish of Toad-in-the-Hole, a roasted chicken, two pies, a basket of currant-dotted scones, a wheel of cheese, a loaf of bread, and an overflowing bag of apples. As the food swelled back to normal size, it quickly crowded the small wooden table. Remus gaped at the spread, only noticing the broken-handled mug teetering on the edge just before it tipped over. The mug hit the floor and smashed to pieces, sounding too loud and making Remus wince. He peeked one eye open, braced for the indignity of seeing the only thing that remained of Sirius lying on the floor amidst dust motes and shards of ceramic. When it wasn't there, panic sliced through him, _how could it be gone?_

Then he realized that there was something cold and cartilage-supple clutched in his hand. He unfolded his fingers and peered down at the ear, expecting to perhaps find it grisly and strange beside all the food before him, but he found it only precious. Relief poured through him and he thanked Merlin that for all his lycanthropy had taken from him, at least it granted him such quick reflexes.

He reluctantly let go of the ear, setting it on the counter away from the food and seated himself at the table, staring at the evidence of Molly's generosity as he waited for his heart to slow. _You're losing your grip, Lupin_ , he told himself calmly, as he reached for one of Molly's scones. He bit into it, mouth watering with hunger, even as his panic receded enough for the guilt to claw its way to the foreground of his thoughts. Had he really been too tangled up in his own obsessive vigil to a lifeless bit of skin and gristle, that he hadn't spared even a thought for Harry in the unknowable number of days since Sirius' death? He had kept thoughts of that moment at bay, of Sirius falling, but the memory of Harry's skinny chest straining against his arms, his voice shouting Sirius' name in useless desperation came to him unbidden. Was he so selfish that he’d considered his work done, simply because he’d kept Harry from chasing off to share Sirius’ fate?

For the first time since the Veil had fallen still, the numbness in Remus threatened to break. He felt the very edge of it, and it was worse than a dozen full moons rolled into one. He pushed the pain away reflexively, fairly sure that he would break irreparably under the weight of it. And _his_ pain was not what mattered just now, anyway. Of course, Harry was suffering. Of course, Harry blamed himself. Of course, Harry needed him.

If Sirius still existed, he would have been furious. Remus could practically hear him, pointing out that his _bloody godson_ was more important than his _fucking ear,_ and _Moony, I shouldn't have to bloody tell you that!_

It hurt Remus’ throat to swallow his mouthful of scone, and though his stomach begged for more, he felt a sudden powerful need to crawl into bed. _Just one thing I must do first_. He found some parchment and a biro, and took rather too long and a few drafts to pen a few sentences in response to Molly. He assured her he was alright, thanked her for the food and her condolences, and asked her, perhaps futilely, if she had a telephone number for Harry at his Muggle aunt and uncle’s house. He coaxed the hyperactive Pigwidgeon down from the rafters, secured the letter to his leg and watched out the window until he was little more than an erratic fleck against the reprehensibly cheerful blue sky.

_23 June, 1996_

The telephone rang twice before someone picked it up, “Who in the hell is calling at this hour?” said a man’s voice by way of greeting.

Remus had had the dubious pleasure of meeting Vernon Dursley only once years before, but his voice was unmistakable. Remus glanced out the window, a little surprised to find the world dark. He hadn’t realized it had gotten so late while he stared at his mam’s old rotary phone and tried to find the nerve to dial.

“Oi, who’s there?” Vernon prompted, and Remus imagined his face was turning red.

“Good evening,” he said, careful to keep his tone even and polite to cover up just how much he’d relish hexing Vernon into next year for his years of mistreatment of Harry, “My name is Remus Lupin, I’m calling to speak to Harry Potter.”

Remus expected he might be shouted at or hung up on, but Vernon only went quiet and said tightly, “Hang on.” Remus did.

“Hello?” Remus smiled at the sound of Harry’s voice, his face hardly remembering how to do so.

“Harry, it’s Remus,” he said.

“Oh!” Harry said, and Remus could picture the way his eyes had widened behind his spectacles.

“Your uncle was… surprisingly cooperative just now,” Remus pointed out.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, and Remus imagined he was running a hand through his wild hair or perhaps pushing his glasses up his nose, “A few Order members, Tonks, Mad-Eye, the Weasleys, were at King’s Cross a few days ago and gave Uncle Vernon a fright. Told him they’ll know if he mistreats me at all, and so on.” There was no smile in Harry’s voice.

Something like a laugh escaped Remus, “Good, we should have done so ages ago.”

Harry hummed and silence fell between them. Remus had never had a hard time conversing with Harry before, but this was different. The spectre of Sirius hung between them, making even the static that crackled over the phone line seem to constrict, “Can I ask you something, Professor?” Harry asked suddenly, and Remus could hear that the same tension he felt had bled into Harry’s voice.

“Of course,” he said. He would have corrected Harry, reminded him that he was no longer his teacher, but he couldn’t risk derailing the conversation when Harry sounded like he might want to open up about something.

“D’you ever get angry at magic?” he asked, his words fast and staccato.

“Yes,” Remus replied, honestly, “I’m a werewolf, I get angry at the magic of that rather often.”

“Sure,” Harry said, in a dismissive way that reminded Remus powerfully of James at Harry's age, single-mindedly focused on his own point, “But I’m not talking about getting angry at magic for what it does to you. I-I mean, don’t you get angry at magic for what it _doesn’t_ do?”

Remus’ stomach gave a lurch of sympathy, but he only urged gently, “Like what?”

“I just, _what’s the point of it?_ ” raw emotion flooded Harry’s voice, “What good is it to even _have_ magic if it can’t do _a bloody thing_ when it actually _matters!?_ ” Remus opened his mouth to respond, but Harry kept going, picking up momentum and volume as he went, “What good is _Lumos_ or _Stupefy_ or even my bloody Patronus if they’re no good against a bloody _Veil!?_ A VEIL!” a harsh humorless laugh burst out of Harry and Remus felt it like a knife in his chest, felt the absurdity of it, the rage at the finality of it, the hatred of the Veil and its mundane inexplicability.

“I know, Harry,” he said and his own voice rasped on his ears.

“No!” Harry interrupted, “No, you _don’t_ know! You don’t _understand!_ VOLDEMORT CAME BACK, he came back to life RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME! AND IT’S NOT BLOODY FAIR! WHY CAN _VOLDEMORT_ COME BACK, BUT MY PARENTS CAN’T! — BUT CEDRIC CAN’T! — BUT _SIRIUS CAN’T!?_ ”

The words traveled up Remus’ spine and started mutating into something dark in the back of his skull. Something dreadful. Something _unthinkable._

“You, _you_ accepted he was gone _right away,_ you said it to me _right after he FELL_ ,” Harry drew in a breath that whistled, “I _know_ death isn’t new to you, Professor, and,” here, another sharp laugh, “And it’s not new to me either, but y-you and Dumbledore and _everybody_ keep acting like _‘dead’_ and _‘gone’_ are the same bloody thing AND THEY’RE JUST NOT! VOLDEMORT WAS DEAD, BUT NOW HE ISN’T! AND SIRIUS—” Harry’s voice buckled with tears and he added brokenly, “He’s _gone_ , and no one can even _tell me_ for certain if that’s even the _same thing_ as dead, and— and—”

“Harry,” Remus soothed, helplessly, reminded with cruel absurdity that it had always been Sirius who had been able to soothe Harry’s squalling as a baby, even as teenage Harry’s words spiraled out through Remus' mind in dangerous fractals. What exactly did ‘gone’ even mean? He had thought Peter was gone for a dozen years, only to find that he was alive. The entire Wizarding World had thought Voldemort gone until he had returned! Why should he assume the permanence of Sirius’ death when that line was blurred, when that line was as fragile as the flutter of a Veil? Could fabric not be torn?

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, voice thick with tears and embarrassment.

“Don’t be,” Remus said instantly, despite feeling light-headed, he couldn’t give Harry the impression that the person he was leaning on was barely standing. He made an effort to put his own feelings aside, focusing instead on Harry’s indignance in the face of grief, “You made some good points.”

“You don’t have to humor me, Professor,” Harry said, defeatedly, “I sound like a stupid kid, whining about things being _unfair_ ,” he scoffed self-deprecatingly at himself, “As if you don’t know all about unfairness!”

“I promise I’m not humoring you, Harry,” Remus said honestly. Truthfully, Harry’s anger made more sense right now than his own thoughts, “As you say, I know unfairness quite well. That doesn’t make it easier to accept, though, I’m afraid.”

“Great,” Harry said dryly, “A lot to look forward to, then.”

Remus smiled at that, but it felt wrong on his face. Something had been planted in his mind and it was growing out of control, the dark branches of it crowding out his other thoughts, “Harry,” he asked, just as the idea came to him, “Would it be alright with you if I went to Grimmauld Place?”

“What?” Harry sounded caught off guard by the sudden apparent change of topic, “Why would I care? I mean, er, go wherever you like.”

Remus kicked himself, of course Harry wouldn’t know, “Oh, well, the thing is, well,it belongs to you now, Harry. Sirius had it in his will that you inherit it.”

“I have a house!?” Harry blurted out, “Could I go live there?”

“Er, you’d have to take that up with Dumbledore,” Remus said, hating himself for it, wishing he could just give Harry the permission to escape that he craved.

“Right,” Harry responded drearily, “So, why do you want to go there anyway?”

“I…” In truth, Remus was thinking of the Blacks’ vast collection of books, the Dark texts that no doubt held the answers he _should not_ be looking for. _Was not_ looking for. He couldn’t tell Harry that, “I just… well, Sirius’ things…” he trailed off, feeling his ribs tighten around his heart at the thought of Sirius’ belongings, the signs there of Sirius’ presence only days before.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Harry said, a little awkwardly, “Well, it’s fine with me anyway. You can come and go as you please. Sirius would want that.”

 _Sirius wouldn’t want you digging through the Darkness in that library,_ a voice in Remus’ head scolded, even as he thanked Harry politely. They spoke a few more minutes about Harry’s exams, about all the food Molly had sent Remus, about how Ginny Weasley was apparently going out with Dean Thomas. When Harry yawned, Remus remembered that it was late and bid Harry goodnight, exchanging promises to keep it touch.

Remus held the phone by his ear well after the line had gone dead. Before calling Harry, he’d eaten most of one of Molly’s pies and his stomach squirmed uncomfortably around it, the lack of food from the rest of the week threatening to make him sick over his own disturbing thoughts. Talking to Harry had been good, hearing another human being’s voice. And where Remus’ grief had shut him down, Harry’s had sparked and spat. It was catching. Remus could feel it, the fuel of it, the unsteady burn of righteous youthful indignation.

The questions that simmered in his depths had answers that were unnatural, like fire underwater or the sun rising in the west. They weren’t meant to be answered, questions about the borders and boundaries of death, questions about the soul, questions about the cost of _undoing_.

Remus hung up the phone and wondered.

_25 June, 1996_

Even with Harry’s express invitation, Remus hesitated on Grimmauld Place’s doorstep, half-convinced that something foul left over from Sirius’ parents would kill him upon entry for having the gall to enter the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. In his left pocket, he held fast to Sirius’ ear — as if carrying a piece of the late heir would ensure that the house, with the bias and paranoia woven into the very cloth of its protections, might accept him — while his right hand withdrew his wand and tapped the door, disengaging its locks, both analog and magical. The door swung in slightly, with a groan.

With his heart in his throat, Remus stepped inside.

It had been under a week, and yet already Grimmauld Place had acquired the feeling of a haunted house, of some place abandoned for many long dark years. It had never exactly been an _inviting_ place, but only a few days of vacancy had left it feeling distinctly like a mausoleum. Remus shut the door behind him as quietly as he could, but even so, the creak of the hinges seemed untenably loud. As the eerie blue gas-lamps came to life, Remus eyed the curtain that concealed the ill-tempered portrait of Walburga Black, but by whatever small shred of mercy the universe had left for him, she remained concealed and silent.

A shiver made the hair stand up on the back of Remus’ neck as he took a couple steps into the front hall. The shadows that clung to the corners seemed like living things, waiting for him to look away to pounce and envelop him. The old, moldering smell Molly had tried so hard to spell and scrub away had taken advantage of the Order’s absence, as if the cold and damp were trying to claim the house, trying to rot it away from within. It had always been hard for Remus to say how much of the smell was the house rotting and how much of it was the queasy scent of Dark Magic, so palpable throughout the house, but detectable only to his wolf’s nose.

It was not as quiet as Remus would have expected, the wind whistling lowly in leaded windows, the scratching scuttle of small things unseen within the damask-papered walls, the eerie drip somewhere that was probably just a faulty pipe but brought to mind images of blood. Remus had never listened so closely to the ambience of the house breathing, and realized with a feeling like a fist around his heart, that he’d simply never been able to hear it over Sirius.

Once the thought occurred to him, Sirius’ absence from the place was agony. It was a glaring _lack_ , negative space in the shape of Sirius’ tall frame echoing in every room. Remus came upon the dining room and each chair seemed reserved for the memory of Sirius; here, where he’d sniped at Remus for doing Dumbledore’s bidding even though reaching out to the werewolves had been a waste of time in the first war; here, where they’d traded drinks from a bottle of Orion’s nearly hundred year old wine, not bothering with the words of the apologies they owed each other; here, where Sirius had stared glass-eyed into his teacup as if the leaves would hold an escape for him, a trick for slipping between the bars of his new-old prison. And there, by the cabinet of fine bone china, the echo of the touch-starved Sirius who had crowded him against the soot-stained wallpaper and licked into his mouth as if he believed he’d actually taste an answer there.

Remus had opened to him obligingly, as he always had, but his heart had ached with the knowledge that there was nothing eating away at Sirius that was within his power to fix.

Remus shut his eyes tight, feeling the stab of tears for the first time since the night at the Ministry. The safe numbness of shock was breaking, and he was breaking right along with it. Sirius _couldn’t_ be gone, not again, not when he’d only just gotten him back. Grimmauld Place was bloody frigid without the steadily smoldering heat of Sirius, his passion, his frustration, his beautiful fucking chaos like a fire, now snuffed, cinders cooling into grey bleakness. There was a war coming, there was work to be done, but Remus could feel the pull of the bleak nothing that had consumed him back in ‘81, after losing everything.

 _“Never again, Moons,”_ Sirius had said months before, staring at the canopy of his childhood bed, _“Nothing’s getting between us ever again.”_

 _“Don’t,_ ” he’d admonished, even as he had curled closer, their bodies linking together effortlessly as they always had done in nakedness, _“You can’t promise something like that, Sirius._ ”

“ _I bloody well can, and I bloody well do,_ ” Sirius had insisted, kissing the sweat-damp hair at Remus’ temple, _“I feel a thousand bloody years old sometimes, and yet altogether I’ve only spent about ten of them with you, and couldn’t do this,”_ he’d curled over Remus to reach his lips, kissed him, _“Half of that time anyway.”_

 _“Yes, well, we were children, so…_ ” Remus had pointed out, though he’d heard his own voice go soft and small, and perhaps that had given away just how much safer, saner, more whole he had felt, sheltered under Sirius like that, hiding within the curtain of his hair. Or maybe Sirius had always known.

In any case, he had held him tighter, his breath hot and alive as he’d whispered out, in supplication, “ _We just need more time. And now we’ve got it._ ”

Remus was pulled suddenly from his thoughts when he realized with certainty that he was being watched. And not in the vague sense of eyes in the wallpaper that he’d had since entering, but a definite presence watching him. He opened his eyes, not sure when he’d closed them, not sure when he’d leaned his weight heavily on the high back of one of the carved wooden chairs. His hands were still wrapped around the ear and his wand respectively and he held onto both of them tighter, straightening his back and gripping his wand as his eyes swept the room. He saw no one at first, but the wolf’s nose zeroed in on the uncleaned smell, the lonely cold-sweat tang of solitude.

“Werewolf,” croaked a voice like a bullfrog’s. Remus cast his gaze a little lower, realizing already who he would find.

“Hello, Kreacher,” he greeted in as genial a tone as he could muster. He’d always felt sympathy, or perhaps it was nearer to pity, for the House-Elf. A creature, like himself, that wizards saw as beneath them, who had been brainwashed and bent to the will of the family he’d been bound to serve since birth. He had understood Sirius’ reproach for the Elf, too, and for the first time he very nearly shared it. _You killed him_ , he thought, and felt his magic crackle at the thought. Kreacher’s watery grey eyes widened, feeling the spike in Remus’ energy. It was a sick joke that his eyes so resembled the full moon.

“Hello, Master Remus,” Kreacher said and from his expression, Remus had to assume that addressing him as Sirius had instructed was causing the Elf physical distress, “Kreacher did not expect to see Master Remus again in his Mistress’ house.”

“Well, here I am,” Remus stated plainly, adding on second thought, “I won’t get in your way.”

Kreacher’s eyes narrowed and he muttered to himself, “ _Why is Master Sirius’ dirty werewolf here? What is it after?”_

“I’ll be in the library,” Remus said, and hurried past the Elf before he lost his head. Kreacher had as good as killed Sirius, it was true, but Remus reminded himself that he couldn’t entirely blame Kreacher. As he moved quickly and single-mindedly through the dark corridors with their high ceilings sagging and the portraits along the walls watching in venomous silence, he tried to remind himself of all the years that Sirius and Kreacher had both been prisoners here, held by different chains. He reminded himself of the vitriol and abuse they had heaped on each other’s shoulders, and of Kreacher’s senility and limited agency.

None of it made it any easier to forgive.

Reaching the library was cold comfort, even if it was one of his favorite (or rather, least hated) parts of the house. It was drier than the rest of Grimmauld Place, more than likely as the result of some charm meant to protect the collection of books. And what a collection it was. Dark wood shelves gleamed even through the layer of dust they’d gathered, teeming with more books than he could read in a lifetime. There were more than books, there were cabinets with neat little cubbies filled with old scrolls, a couple of grandiose sets of tables and chairs, curio cabinets along one wall that housed various specimens in bell jars and Dark artifacts they had not dared disturb when they’d cleaned out Grimmauld Place for the Order. Remus’ gaze scanned the cabinet, idly searching for disembodied ears.

In his pocket, Sirius’ ear had been held so consistently in his hand that it had grown warm, so warm it very nearly felt alive. _The line is fine_ , he thought, he hoped. Remus knew from the couple of times that he had visited this room in the past that the shelves were organized in no way that made much sense to him, and he wasn’t entirely sure what it was he was looking for. He stowed his wand in his sleeve, the familiar line of it along the strong blue vein there, pulsing life against it, product of his body’s stubborn survival. He perused the titles, spindly text fading on the spines of the books, and let himself disappear into the safe detached mind-space of research, that for him had so often offered an escape.


	2. The Betwixt

_27 June, 1996_

A rattling sound drew Remus out of sleep, and inanely his first thought was of _A Christmas Carol_ , of Jacob Marley’s ghost dripping in heavy chains of his own making. He blinked a few times at the woodcut print in front of his nose, which portrayed a rather gruesome ritual, before he pieced together where he was. He peeled his cheek from the page of the book, rubbing it with his palm as if to wipe off any Darkness that might have transferred to him via contact.

He heard another rattle and sought the source of the noise, surprised to see Kreacher, scowling as he carefully and precariously slid a tray onto the pile of books beside Remus at the table. There was a teapot — one of the ornate silver ones bearing the Black crest that Sirius had despised — along with cup and the usual tea accoutrement, as well as a plate mounded high with breakfast. Remus’ stomach growled loudly, but he looked at Kreacher with suspicion, “Good morning, Kreacher,” he said cautiously.

“Not morning,” Kreacher croaked, adding as an afterthought, “Master Remus.”

“But I see you’ve brought me breakfast,” Remus observed, grabbing a perfectly crisp piece of bacon from the tray and regarding it, wondering if it was safe to eat, and whether poisoning would really be such a dreadful thing.

“Master Remus has not eaten anything,” Kreacher pointed out, tone gruff and opaque, moon-like eyes curious as he watched Remus’ hesitation as he bit into the piece of bacon, “Master Remus has done nothing but read.”

Remus swallowed the bacon and did not feel poisoned, and so reached for another, “I may have actually found what I was looking for,” Remus said, looking at the book in question, set aside to his left. It was a very old tome, its spidery text hard on the eyes and its leather cover cracking. It held some of the answers Remus absolutely should not have been looking for, but the discovery did not inspire relief or celebration or confidence.

It was old, Dark, primal magic.

Several of the texts that Remus had pored over since his return to Grimmauld Place had corroborated the same thing; Seers and Necromancers alike agreed that there were more than two realms of existence. There was, of course, this mortal coil, where the swelling moon poured achingly into Remus’ body, and there was always work to be done, and never enough money. And there was, apparently, another realm of the dead. An Afterlife. Writings on it were very vague, as no one there wrote books for the poor saps still here, but its existence was common knowledge among witches and wizards concerned with the matter of mortality and the soul. Remus tended to picture Lily and James there, in some sunny, soft-focus replica of Euphemia Potter’s riotously overgrown back garden, but there was nothing in any of the books to suggest that the Afterlife was any sort of utopian heaven, so that was probably just wishful thinking on his part.

Besides, what concerned Remus was not the Afterlife, but the middle-life, limbo, what a few of the long-gone experts had dubbed The Betwixt.

The Betwixt was just what it sounded like, a realm between Life and Afterlife. More was known of it than the Afterlife, but that only deepened the mystery of it. Ghosts had given varying accounts of the space they’d found themselves in before they had chosen to return to the world. Some recalled it as dark, and some as bright, some as frightening, and some as calm. It was postulated that the manner of death had some bearing on that, or perhaps the soul’s readiness and willingness to die. The Betwixt might well have contained more than one distinct realm, no one seemed to know either way. Most ghosts seemed to have got the impression that the Betwixt was merely a way station, a waiting room or fork in the road and not a destination in itself. Some disagreed.

Some deaths, one Necromancer had asserted, were half-deaths and left the soul marooned in the Betwixt. These were the souls, according to him, that could be pulled back to the living realm as more than an echo.

A half-death might be experienced by someone who had created an intact horcrux, by someone who had suffered the consequences of some varieties of blood pacts, or by someone who had crossed through one of the rifts between realms.

Which, Remus had learned, was what the Veil in the Department of Mysteries had to be. The Dark study of Necromancy was largely lost, largely disgraced, and not without good reason. Most of the wizarding world believed it dealt only in matters of Inferi and human sacrifice. But a good deal of Necromancy had always been born of a desire to understand those ineffable matters of death and consciousness and eternity. Seeking to know the unknown or unknowable. It was what was _done_ with that knowledge, that Darkened the wizard.

And finally last night, Remus had found what he was going to do with it. The first bit anyway.

Remus realized that Kreacher was still standing by the table, watching him with those uncanny moon-eyes of his, “Thank you for the food,” he said, not sure whether he had thanked him already or not. Kreacher nodded, but did not move, his eyes leaving Remus’ face to trail along the books covering the tabletop, “Don’t worry, I’m treating your Mistress’ books well and I’ll see to it they’re all put back where I found them.”

“Not my Mistress’,” Kreacher grumbled after a beat, “The books was my Master Orion’s collection, though his venerable father, Master Arcturus filled the library before he was born.”

Remus considered the House-Elf's misty tone, trying to imagine all of the people he had served before all of them had died and left him in this empty house, “You must have been a child then,” he said, halfway a question.

Kreacher shook his head, bat-like ears swaying slightly, “Not a child, Master Remus. House-Elves' lives are long. I was born when Master Orion’s great-grandfather, Master Phineas was still a young man.”

Remus’ eyes widened at that. He’d known Kreacher was old, but he’d had no idea he was quite that old, “I thought you were the last House-Elf in a long line that had served the Blacks,” Remus admitted.

“I am,” Kreacher explained, “The last living, but not the last born.”

He began to turn away, and Remus knew better than to ask any questions about the fate of the other Elves, Kreacher’s family whose heads had been mounted, “I’m going to be going out today,” he said, wondering even as he did if he was really mad and lonely enough to be updating Kreacher on his comings and goings, “I need to acquire some Potions ingredients.”

Kreacher seemed to hesitate before asking, “What does Master Remus need?”

“Erm,” Remus tried to remember but his mind was foggy. He opened the book to the page he’d marked and squinted to read off the list, “ _Saltpetre, potioning water,_ — well, we call it standard ingredient now — _root of Asphodel, dried leaves of Mugwort, night-flowering catchfly, desiccated brain of owl._ ”

Kreacher did not turn back to look at him as he said, “Kreacher can acquire these things.”

“Why?” Remus asked, before he even had time to think about it. He glanced again at the tray of tea and food, “Why are you being nice to me? I thought I was just a filthy werewolf, befouling your Mistress’ house?”

Kreacher did not turn around but his tiny shoulders stiffened.

“Why should I accept food and potions from you, anyway?” Remus demanded, hearing his own voice pitch toward hysteria, the words spilling out without his permission, “How do I know you’re not going to poison me, not going to kill me like you killed him!”

Kreacher’s small sharp hands curled tightly as his sides, “Kreacher did not kill Master Sirius,” he rasped out, shuffling from the room, “Master Sirius got himself killed.”

Remus wanted to argue, wanted to rage at Kreacher, throw and burn the Dark old books that crowded the table. He didn’t. He just bit down, let the sudden wash of fury and distrust simmer until it cooled. His stomach grumbled and he knew he was going to eat the food Kreacher had brought him. Truth be told, he found he didn’t care whether he was poisoned or not at this juncture. It might be better, in a way. If he died right now, at least that would keep him from going through with his plan.

_30 June, 1996_

Remus took a bracing breath, pinched his nose shut, and downed the muddy potion in one. He felt a shudder down his core that felt somehow invasive, like something foreign slithering down his spinal cord. For a breathless instant, he could neither draw breath, nor move, nor see, and then he seemed to be dropped back into himself.

‘Himself’ felt mostly the same, though the fit seemed uncannily off as he found the will to move his legs, and began wading through the darkness as through black water. He tried to keep his wits about him, but there was something about the place that rendered that quite impossible. It was not simply an impossibility to get one’s bearings, there was no constancy to hold on to. What in one instant seemed to be a dark, wet cave the very next second seemed to be a fog-hazy forest. He was surrounded at once by stiflingly humid heat and bone-chilling cold.

It might have been the Forbidden Forest and Remus glanced upwards, half-sure he would find the full moon glaring at him through moss-draped branches. There was no moon. There were no branches. Above him there was only impenetrable blackness, darker and thicker than any normal night. And though they appeared sometimes like trees, the pillars that loomed around him just as much appeared to be dripping stalactites, to be bodies hanging from nooses, to be the charred beams of some vast and destroyed construction, to be great fingers waiting to close around and crush him.

Remus tore his gaze downward, head spinning, and his vision blurred sickly with the movement of it. He was up to his knees in something that he liked to hope was water, which looked like white fog, and felt like walking through set aspic or coagulated blood. He shut his eyes tight against the nausea brought on by that thought, the darkness within his eyelids cold comfort against the darkness without.

 _Lycanthropes are not afforded the luxury of delicate stomachs,_ he reminded himself. He’d said that once, hadn’t he? The memory was not as close on hand as it normally would have been. He groped for it and then suddenly it was much too close. It was for a moment as though he were _truly in_ the Gryffindor dormitory, Peter's spotty face gaping at him with something part awe and part fear. It was very comfortably warm, nearly too warm and the touch of a cool night breeze drew Remus’ eyes to the window, ajar. It was just beyond his own bed, pajamas folded beneath the pillow, nightstand crowded with books, a half-gone chocolate bar, and a jar of healing ointment. He could feel the slight sting and tightness of the gash healing over on his thigh, and looked down to see if the long scarred-over tissue had opened, as if he’d be able to see it through his corduroy trousers.

His heart nearly stopped to find Sirius there, the weight of him warm and real as anything. He was heartbreakingly young — fifteen — his smart hands pulling aside his lustrous black hair, undimmed grey eyes looking up at Remus through soot-dark eyelashes, expression at once muzzy, and expectant, and petulant. And more than that, yes, challenging and flirtatious, and devastatingly hopeful as only a child on the brink of adulthood could be. Remus whimpered at the sight of him, though it was blessedly soundless.

Sirius’ lips moved—”It’s alright, Moony,”—but he made no sound. Remus could feel the rumble of Sirius’ voice where his chest pressed against his thigh, but heard only silence. He said Sirius’ name, in an effort to scold him for the joke, but though his mouth moved, there was no sound.

And then the scarlet-golden warmth of it snapped away, sudden as Apparating, and he was back in the odd gooey blackness. He swore to himself, deaf and mute. He shuddered with the cold of it and the loss of it — how many bloody times would he have Sirius snatched from him before the universe was satisfied? The pain of it gripped him and he staggered, catching his weight against one of the dark pillars. It felt like wood and he peered at it, uncomprehending.

It _was_ wood, as it happened, and not a pillar at all. Not a pillar, but a door frame, and one he had known well for too short a time. He almost didn’t recognize his and Sirius’ flat without the sound of some record playing, as one always was in his memories of the place. But there was so much he hadn’t remembered, the coffee can on the mantle where they kept the Floo powder, the crack along one windowpane by the fire escape, the particular shade of the ochre brown carpet. He hesitated to look through the door, but in truth there was no way he could help himself.

Merlin, his and Sirius’ room. It had been so bloody grand to have a room of their own that the room hadn’t even seemed small to them, but it was, wasn’t it? Sirius had bought the bed on an impulse, surely for far too much, and Prongs had shrunk it to get it through the doorway while Remus and Sirius had quarreled about it. It was a bit of an ostentatious thing, carven wood and gilt, and it dominated the pokey room comically, but it was splendidly comfortable and as Sirius had observed, smug and flushed in the afterglow of their first evening in it, Remus hadn’t seemed to mind the extra space to maneuver. Remus had reluctantly conceded the point and condoned the purchase.

He wondered why it couldn’t have been _that_ memory he’d stepped into, Sirius languid in naked glory. Instead, Sirius was sitting at the foot of the bed with distant eyes, _Daily Prophet_ held in one limp hand. Remus recognized that it was not simply the mute magic of the Betwixt that cast the flat in such uncanny, uncharacteristic silence; there hadn’t been any music playing on this day after all. Remus went to Sirius, just as he had then, knowing what news the paper held. Sirius stood abruptly and his eyes flashed, the grey of them seeming bluer against the sclera, gone pink with crying. _“I don’t want to talk about it!”_ he half-shouted, as noiseless as he had been in the dorm, as everything seemed to be here, shoving the newspaper into Remus’ hands and storming from the room. Remus cringed against the serrated edge of Sirius’ anger, even if he couldn’t hear him. They’d fought viciously the night before this, neither of them brave enough to ask full questions or give full answers about one another’s mysterious war efforts. Remus had needled Sirius about when he had last spoken to Regulus, and the next day, by an unfortunate coincidence, his death had been announced in the _Prophet_.

Remus looked down to see the headline but his hands were empty and he was back again in the darkness. He soundlessly cried out in frustration, feeling wrung out and weary as if he’d walked fifty kilometers when he’d probably walked only fifty steps, and through a place where every forsaken meter was the same as the last. All well and good that he’d managed to get here, but what bloody good was the Betwixt to him if all it had to offer him were stale memories of what had befallen him in the living realm? Though it had been initially sweet to behold Sirius with his own eyes, and to feel the warmth of him, it only made it more bitter if he could not actually find him here.

All the books had seemed to agree on one point; a soul beyond the Betwixt could not be reached except perhaps by one’s own death. Hopelessness at the very thought swallowed Remus. _You can’t leave me again_ , he thought desperately, once-familiar words spilling into his head to capture his very own feelings, _do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!_

Remus blinked against the sudden full brilliance of the sun. The Black Lake glittered in the sunshine and reflected the vibrant blue of the spring sky. Prongs and Peter were before him, looking tiny though they must have been about twelve. They were playing Exploding Snap, Peter still round with baby fat where James was weedy and seemed too small for his thick spectacles. Remus turned slightly to find Sirius beside him, sprawled out on the new grass and scowling at a book. Remus recognized it as the beaten-up old copy of _Wuthering Heights_ he’d owned back then, and judging by where he held the pages, Sirius about two thirds of the way through reading it. He felt Remus’ gaze and lowered the book, his pre-pubescent face nearly cherubic if it hadn’t been for the wrathful expression, “These bloody Muggles!” he mouthed, though Remus could easily enough imagine the way it would have sounded, the indignant crack of his changing voice.

“What about them?” he prompted lightly (and soundlessly).

“Well, they’re bloody melodramatic, aren’t they?” he went on, the words a little hard to lip-read, so quickly and angrily was he speaking, waving the book for emphasis, “Spurning and yearning and all that rot, and now one of them’s gone and _died_ , and what does he do but _bloody curse her!_ ”

“You’re one to criticize melodrama, the way you sometimes carry on.” Remus replied with a sniff, the memory coming clearer and clearer now he was in it.

“Well, I wouldn’t do _that!_ ” Sirius protested, “Cursing her to haunt me and then bashing my head all on a tree! It’s bollocks!”

“That’s just your vanity talking,” Remus teased. It had been around this time, after all, that he’d begun noticing Sirius preening over his beautiful hair and fussing over pimples, “Bashing one’s head on a tree is bound to leave scars and you wouldn’t want to muck up your pretty face.”

He couldn’t hear them, of course, but remembered James and Peter had chuckled at that jibe. Sirius had just frowned at him and said, “Scars are loads cooler than being _pretty_.” Remus felt the echo of that long ago blush on his cheeks even just seeing Sirius’ lips form the words. His eyes had already returned to the book, but Remus remembered how he’d sat there, dumbfounded, unsure what meaning to take from his friend’s words.

This time, he wasn’t surprised to be dropped out of the memory and back into the dark gloom of the Betwixt.

Remus blinked a few times to adjust his eyes to the monochrome dim of it after the brilliance of spring sunshine. If all this place had for him were bittersweet reminiscences, he could just as easily have experienced those without the unsettling atmosphere. The book whose instructions he had followed had listed an incantation that was supposed to draw one back to waking life, and Remus hoped it would work even if it made no literal sound. He got two syllables into it before he stopped with a mute gasp.

There was a dark rise before him, fog-wreathed all around and between the pillars that might have been trees. Despite the fog and the darkness, he beheld clear as anything the silhouette of a dog. Not just any dog, but _the_ dog. The dog he knew, the dog he sought, the great hairy shape of it and the set of the ears and the expectant curve of the tail as familiar to him as his own reflection. _“Padfoot,”_ he said, though it made not a sound and the tail stuttered into wagging. The dark shape of Padfoot blurred as it burst into movement towards him, and Remus just had time to register the unmistakable pale eyes before his ears filled with a cacophony of ambient noise.

Creaking and groaning walls, dripping pipes, whirring wind, bubbling potion. Remus coughed on his inhale, choking and hacking and curling onto his side. In the wake of silence, the passive sounds of the old house were jarring as klaxons. He realized from the feel of the rug against his cheek that he was on the floor in the Grimmauld library. His head throbbed and his joints were sore so that it felt almost as bad as though he’d been through a full moon transformation. After a few minutes of aching immovability, he managed to pull himself to his feet, just long enough to drag himself over to one of the stiff brocade-upholstered couches. He collapsed onto it, and fell promptly asleep.

_1 July, 1996_

_Remus tried to follow the words to the song that was playing. He had the distinct sense that it was well known to him, the rhythm, the harmonies, the voices all familiar but the words somehow indistinct. Every time he thought he was sure what it was, it would resolve into a different refrain than the one he expected. He watched the fag between the first and second fingers of his right hand; the cherry glowed and a tendril of smoke rose in hypnotic swirls, but it didn’t seem to be getting any shorter or burning away. He brought it to his mouth and sucked. It didn’t burn in his throat, but it tasted like ash. Nonetheless, there was a satisfaction to it, as if he’d gone_ days _without a smoke._

_The door opened and Remus realized where he was, though of course he had sort of known. He sat up from the reclining position he’d been in, smoking dreamily with his head against the arm of the couch. He looked more closely at the cigarette, glad he hadn’t fallen asleep long and burned the place down. But what a strange and dreadful dream he’d had!_

_“Remus?” Sirius’ voice broke slightly on his name, and Remus looked up. Sirius was standing at the open front door, stray snowflakes clinging to his leather jacket and his long hair. His cheeks were pink, likely from the biting wind, and his eyes were wide with astonishment._

_“Hello?” Remus said, cocking his head at Sirius’ peculiar expression. He discarded his cigarette in the crowded ashtray on the table and stood, “Alright, Pads?” he asked._

_Sirius’ eyes narrowed infinitesimally and he studied Remus shrewdly for a second. Without breaking eye contact, he approached a couple of paces, “Yeah, I’m alright,” he said, cagey, “Yourself?”_

_Remus grinned easily at Sirius, nodding, the strangeness of his nightmare already receding. What was Sirius so worried about? There was no reason to be worried; that all had been a dream! Something in Sirius’ tense expression slackened, then softened, going very nearly tearful as he rushed to close the distance between them. His hands pressed to either side of Remus’ face, “Sirius,” Remus said, a bit taken aback and confused by the tender, intent look on Sirius’ face, “What’s wrong?”_

_“I- I didn’t expect to see you again,” Sirius confessed in a rush, eyes searching Remus’ face._

_“What?” Remus asked laughingly, “Very funny, you prat.”_

_Sirius shook his head, hands dropping from Remus’ face only to grab for his hands, watching as he carefully laced all of their fingers. His expression was deadly serious as he met Remus’ eyes again, “Moons, I’m chuffed to see you, but you’ve got to be straight with me. What are you doing here?”_

_“When have I ever been straight with you?” Remus flirted, and though Sirius’ cheeks flushed pinker still and the corner of his lips twitched, he remained determinedly grave._

_“Just tell me,” Sirius said, and there was a note of desperation in his voice, “Are you alright? Why are you here?”_

_“Why am I here?” Remus asked, incredulity bordering on offense, pulling one of his hands from Sirius’ to gesture at the flat, “I_ live _here!_ We _live here!”_

 _“You—?” Sirius looked around and when he looked back his expression was one of utmost befuddlement. Remus looked around to see the room darkening, fog billowing in from the entrance to the bedroom and under the front door. Remus looked back at Sirius and he had aged a lifetime, his face sunken and shadowed, and it wasn’t snow it his hair, but ashes, “Remus,” he said, with a significant incline of his head, “No one_ lives _here.”_

Remus woke with a violent start, his heart pounding so fast and hard that it hurt. A sound halfway to a moan escaped him as he pressed one hand to his chest. He blinked at his surroundings, high ceilings and cobweb-strung shelves of books seeming to mock him from the shadows. He sat up sharply, head spinning, Sirius’ name flying from his tongue in a panicked slur. There was no answer. How had he got here from the flat? It must be some spell, some trap; he hadn’t felt the pull of a portkey but perhaps—

And then the reality of it slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs and making his ribs feel much too tight to cage in the wild thrashing of his heart. The dream, the dreadful dream he’d woken from on the sofa… an anguished sound escaped him; so it was the dreadful dream that had been real. Just his luck.

When his heart slowed a little, he sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face. He tried to cling to the image of Sirius, so immediate and tangible, young and windswept and beautiful in the doorway of their flat. The tighter he held it the more determinedly it dissolved, though, giving way to a different image of Sirius. The silhouette of Padfoot amongst dark murky pillars, grey eyes and an uncertainly wagging tail. The anguish of a moment before was obliterated, seared away by sudden and blazing _hope_.

Sirius had not moved on to the Afterlife, whatever the bloody hell it was, but remained in the Betwixt! A soul in the Betwixt could be drawn back into the world of the living, reconstituted! Why, Sirius might as well not even be dead at all, speaking strictly in terms of permanence! Remus actually laughed out loud with the relief of it and his eyes blurred with tears. He had never felt this good as a child on Christmas morning, not as he boarded the Hogwarts Express, not as he did anything. When Sirius had first kissed him the summer after sixth year, that was the only thrill that even came close.

Remus was at the table, standing unsteadily before his books and notes. He was positively dizzy and didn’t remember standing and crossing the space at all. He half felt like dancing, which wasn’t a sensation to which he’d ever been prone, but he had also never been prone to house such a riotous storm of _hope_ within his chest. _It could be done!_ Impatience roared in him as he rifled through his notes, locating and reading over the potion he’d found some information on. _He would have Sirius back, and he’d let nothing come between them again, just as Sirius had promised!_

The notes were incomplete, the general process without some of the key details. Remus grabbed for a blank sheaf of parchment, inspiration striking him. Why bother with more old books when he knew someone who had witnessed the successful use of the potion only a year before?

Remus took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm enough to compose his letter to Harry. He didn’t want to alarm the boy by saying anything distressing. He would rather have told Harry the whole truth and the reason he needed to know, but Harry was so very young and his morality was still that of a child’s. He wouldn’t understand, and Remus couldn’t risk losing the information Harry held, or wasting any time now that his longing for Sirius had redoubled into a mad and hungry thing. He didn’t want to lie to Harry, though, and he managed not to, keeping his tone vague and curious about matters of mortality, padding the letter with enough discussion of other matters to disguise his intent need for the answer.

He read the letter over and stood to go wrangle one of the tempestuous Black eagle owls, but by some of his own mysterious brand of magic, Kreacher appeared at that moment. Remus didn’t bother to question how Kreacher had known, he only shoved the letter into his hands and bade him to owl it straightaway. He watched out the window after Kreacher had left the room until he saw an owl soar across the lightening sky. He looked at the ostentatious grandfather clock across from him and his head swam to find that it was seven in the morning, of what day he couldn’t rightly say. He had the sense that he’d lost more hours than he’d thought trudging through the grim sludge of the Betwixt and Merlin alone knew how many more while he’d slept.

Remus touched his cheek. It seemed so real that only moments ago Sirius’ hands had been on Remus’ face, that Sirius had been young and warm and gorgeous with ashes in his hair. His blood seemed to boil with the need for him. It felt like the yearning of adolescence again, bright and sharp-toothed and gnawing, making his heart ache and his trousers tight. He shut his eyes, rested his forehead against the window glass. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to cool the renewed fever of his need for Sirius or if he was trying to properly bask in it. He ground his teeth together, feeling furiously impatient with the world that he had to be apart from Sirius a moment longer, just the way he used to feel when Sirius would have to leave the cramped dorm they shared at Hogwarts to go to Quidditch practice or class or detention.

Remus startled back from the window when something tapped against it. His heart leapt with hope that it would be a reply from Harry, but of course swift as they were, it was doubtful the eagle owl had even reached him in Surrey yet. And it was neither an eagle owl nor Hedwig outside the window, but a Hogwarts tawny. Remus sighed. Orders from Dumbledore no doubt. He had resumed his duties of Dark Creature reconnaissance from the first war in the last few months (a fact with which Sirius had had several complaints) and before he even broke the seal on the letter, Remus had an idea what the contents would be. It was as he suspected, a brief missive and a portkey for ‘ _this afternoon, 2 July’_ , which at least gave him back his bearings as to what day it was today.

For the span of a couple seconds, Remus considered refusing to do it. He had never said no to the man before, though, and surely if he did now, he could count on the interference of a concerned Dumbledore. He wouldn’t risk it, not when he was so close, when he had seen Sirius’ very soul and knew he could bring it home. He wrote a brief, affirmative reply and stashed the portkey in his pocket, nearly surprised when his hand brushed something fleshy within.

He drew Sirius’ ear from his pocket and regarded it there in his palm. It seemed so cold and dead compared to the Sirius of the other world and the Sirius of his dream. He closed his fingers around it so tight that the back of the earring pressed painfully into his skin. _Soon_ , he promised, _you’ll be whole, and nothing will get between us again._

_2 July, 1996_

The tug of the portkey behind his navel threatened to bring up the food Kreacher had made him eat. Well, hadn’t _made_ him exactly, but had put the steaming plate in front of him and watched him sort of intently with those queer moon-eyes of his so that Remus had felt rather obligated. He’d been hungry besides, though it had been hard to tell that feeling apart from the unease and the eagerness squirming around in his guts.

The unease took proper hold of him now as he beheld his surroundings. It was colder here, so he reckoned the portkey had dragged him northward, not that that narrowed it down much. Something about the damp, dark greenness of the place seemed to him more like Scotland than Wales, but he could do no more than postulate. He stood alone in an overgrown field, weeds and grass as high as his head, growing right alongside what might be the descendants of some crop of years past. Around his chest and waist, some of it resembled barley or wheat, unattended and bird-pecked and going to seed. It smelled all over like dark, arable earth and it reminded Remus sharply of helping weed his mam’s garden.

He walked through the field nervously, hoping that he was headed in the right direction and not merely deeper into the sea of wind-whispering stems. To his immense relief, he emerged from the plants and found himself, as he’d half-expected, at what could only be an abandoned farm. There was the burnt shell of a house, no more than the bones of it, the few remaining vertical beams reminding Remus like a slick of ice down his spine of the mysterious shifting pillars of the Betwixt. There was an old-fashioned stone well where a very skinny one-eared cat stalked a bird hungrily, a couple of rusted-out farm vehicles, and a moldering wooden barn.

It was from within the barn that a strangely familiar figure emerged, “Remus Lupin,” he stated, in a dumb-founded voice, his Irish accent resounding like a harp string in Remus’ memory.

“Kurt Connery,” he returned. Connery was instantly recognizable to Remus, his scent unchanged since their first meetings back in ‘79. Though the years had changed his appearance, to Remus these changes seemed minor compared to how much of the man's presence was startlingly the same. Grey had claimed most of his hair, once a brilliant russet red, and new scars littered his skin, most notably one that crossed his left eye. Remus took a few steps closer and saw that the eye had gone dead, the iris foggy and unseeing.“You’re looking well,” he said, with a wry half-smile.

“Oy, feck off,” Connery’s smile was a mite uncertain, nostrils flaring. He regarded Remus a moment and then shrugged, gesturing toward the barn, “Might as well come in, even if I know what ye’ll be askin’ and ye know what I’ll be sayin’.”

Remus followed Connery into the barn. It was rather dark inside despite being mid-day, and the lack of air within made it stiflingly humid and warm. Connery had done his best in making the place habitable, with second-hand furniture he’d likely swiped from Merlin knew where and even a large moth-eaten rug on the dirt floor. Remus sat on an armchair that was gagging its stuffing out near the seat and Connery shuffled stiffly to a wall of crates by the far wall which served as a makeshift bar, if the clinking of glass was anything to go by, “Dumbledore might have mentioned it was you I was meeting with,” Remus complained dryly.

Connery snorted, “Came down with the last shower, didya? When has that old codger told anyone anything they dint strictly hafta know?”

“True enough,” Remus allowed, “Only he might have better convinced me to come if I’d known I’d be having a drink with an old friend.”

Connery hummed thoughtfully at that as he came over, handing Remus a glass with a chip missing by the rim. He dragged over a wooden rocking chair and seated himself. He rocked and took a slow sip of his whiskey, examining Remus over his drink with his one good eye, the familiar lupine amber. He lowered his drink after what seemed a long time, nose twitching as he said, “Old friends. Good a name for us as anythin’, I spose.”

“I can guess you mean to keep well out of this war, same as the last?” Remus asked, straightforward.

“Not much good came of the last, if already there’s another with the same header,” Connery pointed out. Remus wished he could argue, but there was more than a little truth to it, “Was dead sure you were worm-food, like.”

Remus shook his head but Connery kept on eyeing him with something like suspicion, “No, but nearly everyone who meant a thing to me went that way. I was in a bad state for a long time.”

“Aye,” Connery said, sympathetic but aloof, and took another drink.

“Connery,” Remus started, cocking his head, “You’re not sore that I didn’t keep in touch, are you? I wouldn’t have known how to even find you.”

“Aye,” he said again, “You always did underestimate the wolf, your nose coulda sniffed me out fairly lively, like.” He gave a mirthless half-smile, “Ain’t sore, though, I’m up to high doh to see yer in one piece. Honest, like.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Remus said with a smile, meaning it, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that there remained something unsaid between them. He reminded himself that it had always been there. Sirius had joked sometimes back in the day, cocky, that he had ruined Remus for all others, but Remus had never known until the war deepened, until he caught himself wondering if his love blinded him too much to know if Sirius could be trusted or not, how true it was. And any time he had happened to feel the flash of chemistry with someone, or the tentative press of interest, it had always been dim compared to that blinding, sometimes loathsomely bright, devotion to Sirius. And so leaving things unsaid was natural, easier, safer.

He’d always sort of suspected that there was one of those sparks with Connery, though neither of them had ever addressed it. Connery was a good ten years his senior but the age difference didn’t seem quite so vast now as it had when Remus had been nineteen, when the ostentatious bed in the flat had still been new and it had been easy to want no one else, knowing Sirius was waiting for him in it. The years had changed all that, and they had changed Connery, too, his pack gone and making a meager solitary life for himself. Remus sympathized with Connery’s loneliness, which didn’t look all too different from how his had looked for a dozen years. Perhaps if Sirius had really been dead he’d even have given some real consideration to the Irish werewolf, sought to find beauty or magnetism in his rangy, wiry frame and his single keen amber eye.

They did not speak of it, though they spoke amiably enough for a few more hours. They spoke not of the war, old or new, but of the moons and books and some of their shared acquaintances, the werewolves that had once made up Connery’s motley pack. Some of them were well and most of them had come to sorry ends. After a while, Remus reached in his pocket for his watch, feeling the reassuring graze of Sirius’ ear against his knuckles, “I ought to be on my way,” he said, a bit apologetic to leave Connery to his solitude. He knew all too well what that was like.

They said their farewells, but as Remus was leaving the barn to Apparate, Connery called suddenly for him to wait. He scrambled from his seat and met Remus at the door to the barn and pinned him with a piercing look, “I reckon yer laddie died,” he said, his voice half-breathless for a reason altogether apart from exertion. Neither of them had ever made mention of Remus _having_ a ‘laddie’, but one had few secrets from those they’d ran with under a full moon.

Remus' hand was in his pocket and holding fast to Sirius’ ear before he knew it, “After a fashion, yes,” he confirmed.

Connery did not offer condolences, nor did Remus expect him to. That single amber eye was peering at his sharply now, cast bright in the brilliance of the sun while its dormant twin was cast in the slant of the barn door’s shadow. His nostrils flared again and he said, “Mind ye take care, Lupin.”

The hair on Remus’ neck prickled and he straightened his back, though Connery was taller than him, “I always do.”

Connery shook his head, “Ye daft stook,” he said, and spat on the ground, “The stench of Dark magic is on ye rotten,” Remus opened his mouth as if he had any argument to make, but Connery went on, “Don’t give me guff, I’m a Dark feckin’ bein’ meself and I know the smell of it, like.”

“I’m a Dark fucking being, too, in case you forgot,” Remus bristled.

Connery’s eye darted to Remus’ hand, buried in his pocket, and his nose wrinkled, “Ach, it in’t that and no use wastin’ yer breath on excuses! Gadding about with death,” He shook his head fiercely, “You smell _different_ , Lupin, Dark as the grave itself,” Connery took a step closer, even as his face betrayed that he’d gotten a good whiff of something foul, “I don’t know whatcher mixed up in and I don’t want to neither. If it in’t worth your pure feckin’ soul to you, though, you better than not quit.”

It was worth his soul to him, Remus discovered, which sent a slice of cold fear through the hope that had been buoying him. He wasn’t about to admit it, though he thought maybe the flash of pain that flickered on Connery’s scarred face meant he knew it just the same. Instead Remus forced on a smile and said dryly, “Everyone knows werewolves haven’t got souls.”

Connery gave him a weak smile and shook his head, shoulders slumping, “Goodbye, Lupin.”

“Goodbye, Kurt,” Remus said, the familiarity of the given name slipping out like some old habit, though it had never been habit to address him thus. They shared a moment of tense eye contact, and then Remus Disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!


	3. Broken Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, the brief instance that necessitated the 'tooth-pulling' tag is in this chapter

_2 July, 1996_

The quaint streets of Hogsmeade seemed like an entirely different world from Kurt Connery’s abandoned farm, and the familiar walk from the village to Hogwarts gave Remus a chance to clear his thoughts. He didn’t quite manage to shake the foreboding shiver of Connery’s warning, despite it being a warm and sunny day. Perhaps the castle might have lent comfort to a different man, but not to Remus. Being back as adult must be strange for everyone who had lived and learned there as a student, but for Remus it presented a unique torture. There were ghosts of his past lurking in every little alcove, fluttering the edges of every tapestry, giggling and sneaking kisses just outside the corner of his eye.

As he walked through the mostly deserted halls, he tried to focus instead on the months he had spent there in the capacity of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. It had certainly been the most satisfaction he’d ever gotten from his work, but those memories too were tinged with the chill of the Dementors that had lurked around the grounds, and with the equally chilling memory of the way his heart had skipped a hundred times a day, unused to hearing Sirius’ name in everyone’s mouth. He had been well-fed, in warm company, and intellectually satisfied for the first time in years, though he had cursed Sirius daily for ruining even that for him.

It only occurred to Remus that he did not know the current password as he emerged onto the seventh floor corridor. As it turned out, there was no reason to worry. Dumbledore stood beside the gargoyle that guarded his office, dressed in violet robes and placidly curling the end of his beard around two spindly fingers. He looked up as if just catching the sound of Remus’ footfalls, but in all likelihood he had heard him as he ascended the stairs, the corridors empty enough that the sounds echoed off the stone. Dumbledore smiled, though Remus did not miss the way the startling blue eyes scanned over him, assessing, “Remus,” he greeted, his tone betraying nothing more than vague fondness, “How pleasant to see you.”

“Good afternoon, Albus,” Remus said, trying to keep his voice equally vague.

“It is, isn’t it?” Dumbledore said, looking out the nearest arched window, “A lovely afternoon,”

“Er,” Remus said, feeling as he sometimes did around his old headmaster, as though he were a child without much to offer.

“I am loath to admit, I have thus far spent the entire day tucked away in my office,” Dumbledore said, in the good-natured conspiratorial tone that so endeared him to children but which Remus had learned over the years not entirely to trust, “I wonder, Remus, if you would humor me by accompanying me on a stroll?”

Although a part of Remus was contrarian enough to consider pointing out that _he_ had just been on a stroll, and that if Dumbledore had wished for a stroll, he might have met him on the grounds or in the entrance hall, his eagerness to be out of the castle won out, “Certainly, sir,” he replied and they fell easily into step beside each other, starting down the first of the staircases Remus had only just climbed.

Their silence was nearly companionable as they walked through the castle, as Remus waited for Dumbledore to begin asking questions. On the landing to the third floor, he said amiably, “Forgive me, Remus, if you wouldn’t mind a brief detour,”

Remus _did_ sort of mind. He minded Dumbledore blatantly offering no explanation, he minded Dumbledore preventing this from being a quick, straightforward exchange of information. He was anxious to get back to Grimmauld Place and his nerves were rattling still from Connery’s words, from his dream of Sirius, and the dark trickery of the Betwixt. The bright hope that had flared so bright was faltering like a fire in need of tending, in need of more fuel, more air. It seemed as though it flickered and he flickered with it, as though if it went out, so too would he. But he could hardly tell Dumbledore any of that so he voiced no complaint as he followed him down the serpentine third floor corridor, his feet knowing the way well. He expected Dumbledore to stop outside of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, to gesture to it and make some object lesson of it, but he strode right in and left Remus little choice but to follow.

It was the first time he had been inside since he had packed his things the day of his resignation. Any changes to the room gave little hint as to who the new instructor might be, likely they had not yet been in to set it up, seeing as classes would not resume for a couple months more. With the classroom so blank, it was entirely too easy for Remus to imagine that if he opened the drawer of the front desk, he would find his own papers within. He realized Dumbledore was watching him closely, and somewhat defiantly met the crystal blue gaze, “Albus?”

“I wonder, Remus,” Dumbledore said, running one finger along the edge of one of the student desks, “Do you miss teaching at Hogwarts? I know you left under nearly disastrous circumstances — as our unfortunate Defense professors so often have—but it is not a bit hyperbolic to tell you that you were among the best I have ever seen in the position,” It was no small compliment, considering how many years Dumbledore had spent at Hogwarts.

“Yes, Albus,” Remus replied honestly after a moment’s pause, trying to figure out where this was going, “I miss it very much.”

Dumbledore hummed contemplatively, tapping his finger against the desk, “Yes,” he said, “I imagine you would. You had a rare gift for it, Remus.”

“Thank you, sir,” Remus answered, uneasy with the praise.

“It has become a most difficult position to fill,” Dumbledore went on, “Few who are willing to take it, and fewer who are well-suited to the task, and fewer still, you understand, who would be trusted and admired as you were.”

“Albus,” Remus said, candidly, though he did feel a warmth at the very prospect, “You can’t be considering me again. The parents all know what I am, and with the fear-mongering in the _Prophet_ —”

“No, Remus,” Dumbledore said, holding up his hand and smiling apologetically, “Not you. I have offered the position to Severus,”

“Severus,” Remus repeated. The casual revelation from Dumbledore hit him not unlike a punch to the gut but he tried to keep his distaste or doubts from showing on his face. He didn’t quite pull it off.

Dumbledore’s mouth curved in the hint of a smile, but his gaze remained shrewd, “Yes. He has coveted it for years, as you more than likely know. I wonder, does it seem to you that I have made a poor selection?”

“I’ve never run a school, Albus,” Remus said at first, noncommittal, but Dumbledore’s eyes bore into him, and truth be told, he hated the thought of Severus sitting at _his_ desk, “But does it not bother you to have Defense be taught by a Dark wizard?”

“Well,” Dumbledore sighed, eyes twinkling sharply, “It is more difficult than you would suspect, Remus, to find an expert in the field of Defense who has not been tempted by Dark magic.”

Remus’ blood ran cold and he felt very suddenly like a rat who had wandered blithely into a trap. He had long known that keeping secrets from Dumbledore was a fool’s errand — had Dumbledore even _cared_ about Kurt Connery, or was it all a ploy to get a chance to question Remus? The blue eyes like ice studied Remus calmly behind half-moon spectacles and just as Remus opened his mouth, trying to train his tongue to give some excuse, some explanation, Dumbledore was turning away with a swirl of his violet robes, “Come, there will be daylight for a while yet, and I still rather fancy a stroll.”

For a moment Remus’ feet were glued to the spot, head spinning, before he shook himself off and hurried to catch up with Dumbledore. When they emerged onto the grounds, the light had gone copper with the coming sunset and it seemed too bright, although the open air moved a little easier in Remus’ lungs than the memory-thick air within the castle walls, “Ah,” Dumbledore said, “Thank you for your patience with me, Remus; it simply doesn’t do to dither away a clear day in Scotland. We enjoy so few of them yearly.” Remus nodded along as agreeably as he could, trying desperately to reorder his thoughts. They walked at a sedate pace towards the Black Lake, and Dumbledore mentioned in a tone that did not match the sudden shift in subject, “I understand that Harry has allowed you access to Twelve Grimmauld Place; you should expect the reappearance of the Order there soon,” He did not give Remus time to respond before asking, with another shift so sudden it threatened to give Remus whiplash, “You made contact with Mr Connery?”

Remus nodded, and then verbally added with only a slight falter to his voice, “Yes, I did, sir.”

“And how was he?” Dumbledore asked, as if curious about a social call to a mutual friend.

Remus shrugged, “He was about as well as one could expect, Albus,” a glance at him revealed silvery eyebrows raised in curiosity, asking for elaboration. So elaborate Remus did. He recounted most of his and Connery’s meeting to Dumbledore, the old man nodding along and listening in attentive silence. When Remus reached the end of it, his Apparition to Hogsmeade, silence fell again between them. They stood by the water for long minutes and Remus tried to focus only on the changing reflection in the lake as the sky bruised purple above them, the setting sun’s rays bright and sharp behind the dark trees of the Forbidden Forest.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke up, but it was only to say, “Very well, I will have to look into some of our other non-Wizard contacts. Thank you as always for your discretion, Remus,” his eyes were unreadable in the odd illumination of dusk as he added, “Proceed with caution.”

“Headmaster?” Remus asked, but Dumbledore only wished him a good night and safe travels, turning back to the castle and sweeping up the darkening lawn.

_3 July, 1996_

The large cauldron was an unwieldy, obtrusive thing, daunting even the high ceilings of Sirius’ room. Remus had relocated here from the library following his meeting with Dumbledore the previous day, and Dumbledore’s unprompted revelation that Grimmauld Place would resume its role as Order Headquarters. His conversation with Dumbledore had sent his thoughts spinning out into various directions, but upon returning to Grimmauld, he had managed to refocus on the importance of the task at hand.

Even once the other Order members resumed congregating here, no one would have cause to go into Sirius’ room, so it was there that Remus would pursue his goal. It was rather more torturous than the library had been. All of Grimmauld Place had a gloomy haunted air about it, watchful portraits of blokes with ruffled collars and Sirius’ elegant features, peeling wallpaper, drafty windows that rattled, and cobwebs like the hair that clung still to ancient skulls. But Sirius’ room was haunted for Remus personally, his own memories clinging to the Muggle posters Sirius had stuck to the walls as a teenager to invoke his mother’s ire, and to the window where they’d shared a joint once or twice in recent months, or to the bedclothes where Sirius had sworn nothing would come between them again. When he tried to sleep in the bed, he was well and truly haunted by the echo of how Sirius had laughed a bit madly, confessing how chuffed his teenaged self would have been to see Moony there in his birthday suit, well-fucked and debauched. Remus had smiled at him indulgently, marveled at the way the hard years and grief and shadow of Azkaban seemed to fall away when Sirius laughed.

Remus sat on that same bed now, with his notes and the letter from Harry spread out before him on the bedspread Sirius had transfigured years and years ago to be Gryffindor scarlet. He’d always been bloody gifted at Transfiguration and all these years later, it was still vivid, unlike every other faded thing in this house. They’d all had their specialities, Sirius at Transfiguration, James at Charms, Peter at Arithmancy of all things, himself at Defense, and of course, Lily at Potions. Bugger all that it wasn’t Lily brewing this Dark and challenging potion, rather than Remus, who had only just managed to scrape by his Potions OWL. He reckoned that he’d brewed the potion base successfully, not that it was much of a feat so far. Nonetheless it appeared to be the correct color and consistency and it was ready for the second round of ingredients.

Remus was hesitant. Once they were added, the potion was to simmer (stirred anticlockwise every twelve hours) for no longer than a week, at which time it would be ruined. Could he acquire the last set of ingredients — the really elusive ones — in a week’s time? He knew he ought to play it safe, ought not to start the second stage of the potion until he was positive it could be followed promptly by the third, but that was just the sort of patience that seemed to have vanished from him ever since he’d seen the silver flash of Padfoot’s soul eyes in the Betwixt.

From the books of Grimmauld’s library, Remus had gleaned the second set of ingredients. Snake venom, sickly orange-ish and oily in the bottle he’d bought in Hogsmeade the day before; unicorn blood, mysteriously produced by Kreacher from the Black storeroom off the kitchen, iridescent and thick and hypnotic as quicksilver; a dozen Glasswing chrysalises which rattled in their jar brightly in a way that reminded Remus sickeningly of Bertie Bott’s; and last but most certainly not least intimidating, tooth of werewolf.

The prospect of pulling out a tooth was dizzying, but it was nothing when put up against the ingredients he’d gleaned from Harry’s letter. He must have disguised his eagerness well enough because Harry was forthcoming and direct in his explanation of the potion Wormtail had used to restore Voldemort’s body. Three ingredients, as straight-forward as they were grisly, ingredients that just by reading he could feel the magic of in his very marrow, so ancient was this sort of manipulation. _Bone of the father, unknowingly given_. Harry had described the way Wormtail had drawn bonedust from the grave of Voldemort’s father. _Flesh of the servant, willingly given._ And how Wormtail — so difficult to reconcile with the squeamish Peter of Remus’ childhood memories — had cut off his own hand. _Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken._ How Wormtail had cut Harry’s arm — James’ son’s arm — and collected a vial of blood.

Remus’ head swam and he shut his eyes tight against it. It was one thing to have drank a potion that risked only himself to wander amongst the dead stranded in the Betwixt. Even to plan on pulling out his tooth; it belonged to him alone, after all, and he had every right to do what he damn well pleased with it. But this was another thing entirely from that, for him to be seriously considering how he was going to acquire _blood_ and _flesh_ from other parties. The lately dormant voice of reason in his head demanded, _you can’t be serious, Remus, this is the Darkest of Dark magic, this is against the laws of nature, this is against your very own code of what is right and what is wrong, this threatens the state of your own soul._

But if he did not try, Sirius was well and truly gone forever. Not only gone, but in the Betwixt. Did he even know the way to the Afterlife, could he have gone if he wanted to? Or was he trapped there forever? If Remus could believe that Sirius was perhaps with Lily and James in Euphemia’s sunny garden all riotous with lavender, begonias, and asters perhaps he could live with it. Perhaps he could let him go, let him rest in peace, and all that rubbish.

But to go on living while Sirius was in the dark damp silence of the Betwixt, possibly _stuck there_ , adrift between memories of Remus himself, and war, and Azkaban… that he couldn’t possibly abide. Was it any less cruel to allow Sirius to languish in that Dark solitude? Who could have made peace with the thought of him there, fated yet again to push impotently against the walls of yet another prison? Of course, what Remus was contemplating was dreadful, but surely to quit now would be no better. Whatever path Remus chose, there would be unjust suffering.

Remus rubbed his closed lids with his fingertips, watching the starbursts of pressure. He felt very weary all of a sudden, and abominably out of his depth. It was no wonder he was tired, he had not slept a wink the night before, eager to work on the potion once he had returned from his visit to Dumbledore. Without bothering to move his notes aside, Remus collapsed back against the pillows, rolling to bury his face in them and pretending he could smell Sirius there still, clove-y spiced almond, and pine winds, and cigarettes, and something as inviting and warm as fresh-baked bread.

_“Oi, Moony, I’m not a bloody bouquet, lay off on the sniffing,” Sirius scolded amiably, voice rough with drowsiness._

_“Smell better than any bloody bouquet,” Remus said against the back of Sirius’ neck, because it was true, “Mouth-watering, in fact,” he added, nipping gently at the sensitive spot where shoulder met neck._

_Sirius made a sound between a yelp and a sigh. He fumbled under the pillow and cast a whispered Silencing Charm and then leaned back against Remus. The press of Sirius’ pajama-clad arse against his already-very-much-awake cock caused Remus to make a sound something like a growl and he bit a little harder, “Good morning, you mangy wolf,” Sirius teased._

_“Good morning to you, you mangy mutt,” Remus murmured back, loosening his arms around Sirius when he squirmed. Sirius rolled onto his opposite side to face Remus and for some reason Remus’ breath caught in his chest. He had the distinct thought_ Merlin, I haven’t seen him look so bloody perfect in ages _, but of course that was complete bollocks. He saw Sirius every day, didn’t he? And he looked bloody perfect all the damn time. It must just have been his drowsy, randy mind’s way of articulating that Sirius looked_ especially _delicious just then. Which he did. His pale skin was not so much like porcelain this morning as it was like peaches and cream, his cheeks and his wetly parted lips rosy and inviting. His dark hair was about him in a tangled halo, sticking statick-y to the pillow and in the morning-dew dampness of his skin it curled by his temples and ears. But it was his eyes that were a glory, shining like a fathomless and storm-swept sea under the dark fan of his lashes, his sleep-heavy lids the same perfect pink as the inside of a seashell._

_“I missed you,” Sirius said, in a voice uncharacteristically soft and vulnerable, lifting a hand to brush Remus’ tawny fringe from his eyes._

_Remus smirked lopsidedly, “I don’t know how, there’s hardly enough room in this bed for missing each other.”_

_Sirius smiled sadly, cupping Remus’ cheek, “Maybe it’s just a load of rubbish,” he said, eyes lowering a bit in uncharacteristic self-consciousness._

_“What is?” Remus prompted in gentle curiosity, looping his arm around Sirius’ waist again and rubbing his back reassuringly with the flat of his palm._

_Sirius bit his lip and Remus swallowed down the urge to bite it himself, “It’s just…” Sirius looked sideways up at the bed’s scarlet canopy, asked haltingly, “D’you ever have a dream where it seems loads of time goes by, like a lifetime, even, and when you wake up again, you can’t tell what’s real life and what isn’t?”_

_Remus shivered at a cold sense of recognition he couldn’t quite explain. He had had a few dreams like that before and they’d left him off-balance sometimes for as much as the whole span of a day, “Yeah,” he answered, shivering again, “Hate that feeling.”_

_“Me, too,” Sirius agreed, a crease forming between his dark, even brows._

_“You don’t have to worry, you know, Pads,” Remus said, drawing Sirius closer into his arms, reassuring him, “This is real life.”_

_Sirius frowned up at him, “I don’t know that it is,” he admitted, and a smile started in his gleaming eyes before his lips curved, “But I’d really like to stay here with you, just the same.”_

_“Stay then,” Remus said softly, brushing the tip of his nose against Sirius’ petal-soft cheek, “I’ll keep you safe, I promise.” He felt Sirius’ smile against him._

Remus woke with a jolt. Finding himself alone cut him to the quick so that he actually cried out, clutching at the blankets beneath him as if he would shake them out and perfect, love-sick Sirius, sixteen and just woken from a troubling dream would reappear. _I missed you,_ Sirius had said and Remus, who for many years had been very dearly acquainted with missing people, didn’t think he’d ever missed anyone so acutely. It was like a vital organ had been carved out of him, like a Sirius-shaped emptiness was inside him.

Tears stung his eyes as he groped in his pocket for Sirius’ ear. He drew it out and looked at it, feeling at once comforted and repulsed by it. What in the world had become of him, that his only comfort was a bit of dead flesh? The Preservation Charms he’d placed on it were fairly strong but they weren’t eternal. No magic could stay the relentless, indifferent march of time. Already the raw edge where the ear had once been attached to Sirius’ dear, half-mad head had blackened more, mottling into a gruesomely un-lifelike shade of purple. How long before this too was gone, before the whole beautiful, heart-twisting mess of Sirius’ role in his life was relegated to memory, little better than the shadow of a dream?

 _I’d like to stay here with you_ , Sirius had said. And _I missed you_ , Sirius had said. And _nothing’s getting between us ever again_ , Sirius had said.

It felt like Transfiguration, what happened in Remus then. Like the shuddering shift of matter altering its form, molecules and magic taking on a new shape. It didn’t tear and shatter like the full moon, it morphed fluidly and felt almost as Remus imagined taking one’s Animagus form must feel. Anguish slanted and re-shaped itself into determination. Sirius — the same Sirius who had once self-consciously worried that he was still dreaming and burrowed into the safety of Remus’ arms — was in the darkness, and there was _nothing_ Remus would not do to draw him back into the light. Sirius was in one of those long, dreadful dreams that blurred with reality at the edges, and Remus would stop at nothing to wake him, to protect him, to make sure he’d never again be a prisoner, and that nothing would ever get between them ever again.

He was on his feet before he knew it, snatching up the long broom handle with which he’d taken to stirring the large cauldron. As the old book advised, he poured in the snake venom and the unicorn blood simultaneously, following with three clockwise stirs. He sprinkled in the glasswing chrysalises and gave another three clockwise stirs. He steeled himself with a deep breath, opened his mouth, pressed the tip of his wand to a back molar he imagined he could spare and before he could hesitate, he yanked it with a wordless spell. Blood poured into his mouth and pain radiated out from his jaw down his neck and up through his head, the sensitive network of nerves screaming out. With a flick of his wand, he flung the tooth into the potion, which hissed and shifted from near-blackness to absolute clarity. It could have been mistaken for water or even glass if not for the way light refracted off it in glitters and sparks. Remus gripped the broom handle and gave the cauldron three decisive clockwise stirs, and then staggered back.

This whole bloody world and his soul be damned, he’d told Sirius that he’d keep him safe and, damn him, he was a man of his word.

_4 July, 1996_

It was with a sense of grim resolve that Remus dug. He had considered using his wand but it seemed the wrong way to go about it. Perhaps there was no _right_ way to go about the task at hand, but he felt sure that Purer-than-thou Orion Black would have _detested_ the desecration of his grave all the more by a half-blood werewolf wielding a common Muggle _shovel_. Perhaps it was wicked to do something with the intention of dishonoring the dead, but Remus could find no compassion for Orion Black. When he thought of Sirius’ father, all that entered his mind was the image of Sirius at James’, sixteen and disinherited, his bones still rattling with the Cruciatus. Remus remembered he’d smelled the Dark Magic of it all the way from the Potters’ front step.

So, bugger Orion Black. Bugger anyone who would torture their own bloody child. Besides, wherever old Orion was in the Betwixt or the Afterlife (Remus wondered if part of that Afterlife might be some form of hell), it was very unlikely he was at all concerned with what befell his earthly remains.

It was hot, even after sunset as it was, and Remus wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His jaw and his head ached from the tooth he had torn from his gums, though he’d healed it as best he could and the blisters on his palms were cracking against the shovel’s handle, but truth be told he was grateful for the pain. It seemed right, in a task as ghastly and primal as his, that he pay the price of a little pain. If he could bring Sirius back with his own bones, his own flesh, his own blood, he would have done so in the space of one heartbeat. If only it worked that way.

His mind wandered as he continued digging, the pattern of driving the shovel into the dirt, scooping, tossing, repeating lulling his mind to wander. Digging a bone out of the earth was easy enough, but how in Merlin’s name was he going to go about acquiring the blood of Sirius’ foe? It wasn’t that Sirius lacked for enemies, but fool though Remus may be, he entertained no illusions that he could sneak up on the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange, or any other Death Eater for that matter, and swipe a vial of blood. A stunt like that was sure to cost him his own life.

Remus was startled from his thoughts when his arm jolted uncomfortably in its socket, the head of his shovel finding an obstacle with a thud. He was near eye level with the scrubby grass of the Black family plot and his stomach roiled with the knowledge that he’d found what he was digging for. With the shovel and his foot, he scraped away the remaining layer of soil, uncovering the lid of a casket. The dark varnished wood shone dimly in the light of the rising half moon, the Black crest just visible despite the dirt caked into its grooves and borders. _Toujours pur indeed_ , Remus was almost sorry Sirius was not present to appreciate the irony of it. In truth, he was grateful Sirius wasn’t near enough to inquire what the fuck he thought he was doing.

Remus spread his legs uncomfortably so that his weight would not hold the casket lid shut, wedging his heels and ankles into the packed and rocky dirt on either side. With some awkward maneuvering and a not inconsiderable burning in his hamstrings and lower back, he managed to bend down, get a hold of the side of the lid and swing it open. Perhaps he should have prepared himself for what lay within.

Orion had died and been buried nearly twenty years prior. There had surely been Embalming Spells placed on him then, but they had long since worn off. Despicable though the man had been, he’d had an austere handsomeness to him once. The same tall, leanly muscular frame, high brow, and square jaw as Sirius. The same grey eyes as his son, though without the wild warmth of Sirius in them they had seemed more like drab stone. All of that was gone, of course, and now he was only a pile of bones tangled in old-fashioned dark green dress robes. Soil had poured into the casket when Remus had prised it open, and it looked somehow profane, earthy and dark against the pleats of pristine white satin that cushioned Orion’s blindly grinning skull, topped still by some short waves of lovingly arranged steel-grey hair.

Remus retched quite suddenly, his own revulsion a surprise to him. It was a good thing he’d eaten so little over the last few days, he managed to swallow back the burning bile in his mouth. It would have truly added insult to injury to be sick on Sirius’ father’s bones. Remus stood frozen for a minute more, urging his stomach to calmness and trying to find his nerve. He squeezed Sirius’ ear in his pocket for strength, feeling like an utter hypocrite even as he did. Disgusted by a skeleton, but comforted by his lover’s disembodied ear. Finally it was the embarrassment of his own hypocrisy that gave him the will to bend down again. Orion’s hands had been crossed over his abdomen and Remus grabbed at what had once been his wrist, shutting his eyes as he _tugged_ , wrenching free the slim white length of the ulna somehow both heavier and lighter than Remus had expected.

He shrank the bone and stashed it in his pocket, eagerly shutting the lid again and hoisting himself out of the ground. He was weary right down to his core and instead of picking up his shovel again, he swept the mounded soil back into the grave with a wave of his wand. Another flick and Remus had restored the grass to its original appearance, undisturbed and soft with the moist warmth of early summer. Remus shut his eyes and tried to center himself. Had he really just done that? Not only dug up a grave but robbed it? Not of its valuables — though the signet ring and fine robes and necklace Orion had been buried in would have been worth a pretty Sickle — but of remains.

He needed to go home, to be back in the trappings of Grimmauld Place where the echoes of Sirius would remind him why he was doing all of this. It was strange in itself to think of that dark empty house as home, but somehow it was becoming so. Remus wasn’t sure when he’d started thinking of it that way, but surely he could not call the cottage in Wales home, could he? That place was quaint and warm and had no business housing graverobbers or necromancers. He had a sick sense that he was not the same Remus who had left that place only days before. Remus gritted his teeth, burying that thought away, and Disapparated.

No sooner had he stepped through the door of Twelve Grimmauld Place than Kreacher was peeking into the entryway, “Hello, Kreacher,” Remus said quietly, shooting a cautious look at the curtain that concealed the portrait of Walburga Black. No doubt she’d have some choice words if she knew that her husband’s ulna was nestled in his pocket beside her disowned son’s ear.

“Master Remus has dirt on his face and clothes,” Kreacher croaked, looking Remus up and down distastefully, “It is needing a bath.”

Remus was half-tempted to scold Kreacher for being churlish, but the Elf was right, of course. He was covered in grave dirt, and he was rather eager to clean it off himself, “I’m going to do that, yes,” he said, still keeping his voice low, “Just one thing to do first.”

He heard Kreacher grumbling behind him about tracking dirt across the house, but the dust and cobwebs piled so thick in many corners of Grimmauld Place, it was a rather hollow complaint. Remus deposited Orion’s bone in Sirius’ room and glanced at the timer he’d set, a twelve-hour hourglass to remind him when he needed to give the potion its anticlockwise stir. There were several hours left before the sand in the upper bulb would run out. The bed was calling to him like a siren, but he really needed to bathe. He grabbed Sirius’ dressing gown from the back of a chair, where the man himself had flung it days before. He rubbed the faded blue cloth between his fingers for a second, thinking with an ache of how it had skimmed Sirius’ clean, damp, warm, living skin. He shook his head, trying to chase away the thoughts, and hurried to the nearest washroom.

All of the washrooms at Grimmauld were ostentatious marble tile affairs, stone-chilled even in summer, walled in silver mirrors tarnished with age, with massive claw-footed tubs. Remus turned the old pewter knobs for hot water and soap. It reminded him of the tub in the Prefect’s bathroom at Hogwarts, how he and Sirius had splashed and kissed and played with the bubbles, a million or so years ago. The soap smelled like spice and almonds, a scent Remus’s sensitive nose had long associated with Sirius. He could picture the green glass bottle of the stuff that had been in their dorm lav back at school. How many times had he shamefully squirted some into his hand before wrapping it around his tenacious morning erections, his teenaged imagination rampant as the smell of Sirius had filled the shower stall?

Remus undressed, feeling distinctly ancient as he uncovered a body that had no business carrying around the daydreams and lusts of the child he’d once been. He left his filthy clothes in a heap on the tiles and tried to ignore the semi-hardness of his cock, responding even now to the remembrance of the humid throes of his sexual awakening, the heady yearn low in his gut for Sirius as strong now as it had been back then.

He made a point to leave Sirius’ ear on the edge of the porcelain sink. Even he had to draw a line somewhere. Nonetheless, he hated not having it on his person. He had grown so accustomed to always having it within reach, when he needed the solid reality of Sirius’ skin to remind him that his pain and the awful lengths he was going to would not be in vain.

Remus closed the faucet and lowered himself into the bath, a groan of pleasure slipping between his teeth. The hot water leeched away some of the aching tightness from his muscles, the grimy chill of evaporated sweat replaced by the bliss of cleanliness. The soap stung his blistered hands, but even that was an inexplicable sort of relief. The tub was deep enough for him to sink in past his shoulders, and he did, tilting his head so that the aching side of his jaw could be soothed by the heat of the water. His eyes fell shut with the sheer comfort of being so immersed. He had been nervous the first few times he’d come into the washrooms since he’d been alone at Grimmauld Place with Kreacher, imagining eyes watching him from the foggy mirrors or dark gooey things climbing out of the drains. He no longer felt like an interloper here, though, as if whatever haunted the place recognized him and no longer meant him any harm.

After a moment of floating in the warm water, Remus reached for his flannel and began the rote work of scrubbing his skin clean. He focused extra attention on his hands, wrists, face, and neck, the flannel coming away dingy. He moved on to his arms and legs and tried to delay washing between his legs until his erection had gone away. The Sirius smell of the soap still had the same effect it had had decades before, dovetailing with the hope that had taken root so absurdly in his heart. Soon, Sirius would be near enough to touch again. He _would_ be able to save Sirius this time. He hadn’t been the one to save him from his parents, nor from Azkaban, but he would save him from the shadowed land behind the Veil.

Still stubbornly ignoring his cock, Remus dunked his head under the water, scrubbing over his scalp thoroughly until his hair squeaked against his fingertips. He pulled the plug from the drain and sat there for a moment, watching the discolored water spiral away. He stood and dried himself, grabbing Sirius’ ear from the sink, deeply relieved to have it back, before wrapping himself in Sirius’ dressing gown, the dripping ends of his hair quickly soaking through the shoulders of it.

Back in Sirius’ room, he was greeted by a different but almost equally appealing scent to that of the soap. A dish rested on the nightstand and upon closer inspection, it was brimming with steaming, hearty soup. Remus sat in the bed and scarfed it down, the warm weight of it in his belly quickly drawing him into sleep.


	4. Former Glory

_4 July, 1996_

_Remus carefully balanced the paper bag of groceries in one arm as he tapped the cottage door with his wand. He heard the lock disengage and took a deep breath. He would have said a prayer if life had given him any reason to believe that those were ever answered, or if he even knew what it was that he would ask for._

_He opened the door, and was met immediately by the acrid smell of smoke. Black plumes of it poured out from the kitchen and Remus dropped the groceries and was there in a flash, wand at the ready. Something was engulfed in smoke-choked flames on the stovetop, and Remus only just registered that Sirius stood against the opposite wall before acting. He extinguished the fire with a silent_ aguamenti _, the burning thing hissing and steaming in the stream of the water, before finally going out. Remus turned to Sirius. He’d been careful not to look at him directly, sure he’d burst into tears over how bloody thin he was, or otherwise behave improperly._

_Sirius’ skeletal hands were curled in tight fists at his sides and with his chin tucked against his chest as it was, his face was hidden behind the curtain of his dark hair, cleaned but still in desperate need of a trim. Remus swallowed, surprised by how strongly he could desire him, even like this, after everything. He took care to avert his eyes back to the stove and tried to keep his voice even as he asked, “Sirius, what happened?”_

_Sirius had been curled in on himself somewhat but at the question he seemed to snap into an upright stance, the tension of him charging the air, “This bloody wand doesn’t_ fucking work _!” he declared._

_Remus willed himself not to respond to Sirius’ defensive antics. He had always gotten like this sometimes, insecure and spoiling for a fight, and Remus knew better than to rise to the challenge, “Give it here, will you?” he requested, extending his hand._

_Sirius clapped the wand into Remus’ palm and he had to resist the urge to grab hold of his knobby fingers. The wand felt a bit prickly and unwelcome in his hand, but the magic in it was unmistakable. He’d tested it already, of course, when he’d bought it second-hand in Knockturn a day earlier with Sickles he couldn’t really afford to spend. “_ Lumos _,” he said, watching the wand-tip light, “_ Nox _,” it went out. Remus waved the wand at the stove, “_ Evanesco _,” he said, watching as the water was siphoned off the floor and counters. “_ Accio bag of groceries _,” he said, catching the bag he’d dropped by the door with his other arm as it sailed into the kitchen._

_“Bra-vo,” Sirius intoned sullenly, snatching the wand back from Remus, "No need to show off…"_

_“I know it isn’t ideal,” Remus said, trying to draw on the deep well of patience that had often seemed his sole saving grace in life. He set his own wand on the counter and began to unpack the food, “You’re still getting used to it, you just need to take care,” Sirius made no noise in reply and Remus didn’t think he could endure standing there in silence with him, “What were you trying to do anyway? I daresay there was nothing left to cook.”_

_With a rustle of his borrowed clothes, Sirius sat, admitting in a defeated tone, “Was boiling some water for tea.”_

_“Oh,” Remus set down the bag of onions he was holding and tilted his head, examining the unrecognizably disfigured, burnt-black object on the stove, “Did that used to be my kettle?”_

_“Right, yes,” Sirius said acidly, “Let’s have us a laugh at Sirius, isn't it splendid he’s so useless with a wand now? Too broken to boil water! A far cry from his former glory, innit? Oh, ha bloody ha.” Remus knew he ought to intervene, stop Sirius’ defeatist spiral before it could go any further. If he was going to get a handle of himself and his magic again, he'd have to stop thinking as though he could feel the clammy cold of a Dementor breathing down his neck. So Remus ought to tell him how wrong he was, that he wasn’t useless, that he wasn’t broken, but instead that he was healing. That he was strong, and capable, and resourceful, that he had persevered through what could and had obliterated better men than he. Only Remus didn’t trust his tongue to say all that without getting carried away, without expounding on how he was still bloody in love with him, moreso even for how admirably he'd weathered his awful imprisonment. How could he, when it was his distrust, his readiness to believe the story of Sirius’ betrayal that had doomed him to the very thing that had nearly broken him?_

_Instead of saying any of it, he just took his own wand back up and repaired the tea kettle with a series of silent_ Reparos _. He filled it with water, wishing he had a spell that could mend his life as neatly as he could mend a melted kettle. He set it on the burner, allowing it to boil the natural way so he could get back to emptying the grocery bag, “There,” he said, falling a bit short of his goal of comforting Sirius, “No harm done.”_

_Remus was placing some cheese in the icebox when Sirius spoke again, and he flinched at the silence breaking. He was too bloody used to being alone, “I…” Sirius hesitated before admitting, “To tell you the truth, I got distracted. My focus is shite.”_

_“Your focus was always shite, Padfoot,” Remus ribbed gently. Sirius hummed uneasily in response and he scolded himself for bringing up the past, so much of which Sirius had forgotten or misremembered after a dozen years of Dementors sifting through it, plucking out whatever bits they wanted like chimpanzees eating the nits out of one another’s fur, “What distracted you?” Remus asked._

_“I was looking at the photos there,” Sirius answered, his voice sort of flat and careful, “Of you and your mum and dad.” Remus steeled himself to face Sirius and turned, leaning his hip against the counter. Sirius looked too small, sitting there on the linoleum, his knees hugged up against his bony chest. His expression was distantly pained, bright eyes glued to the framed photos on the wall, “I’ve been here three days and I didn’t even ask about them, didn’t even think about them, to be honest with you. I…reckon they’ve died?”_

_Remus nodded even though Sirius wasn’t looking at him, “Yeah,” he said, “Da died of cancer back in ‘89, mam…” he thought about keeping it vague, lying by omission, not getting into it, “Mam had a coronary in ‘81.”_

_Sirius opened his mouth and seemed about to ask about those unfamiliar Muggle causes of death, but then his eyes snapped to Remus, boring into his own in sudden, excruciating eye contact, “‘81,” he repeated, “When in ‘81?”_

_Remus crossed his arms over his chest as if to protect his heart, “End of August,” Remus and Sirius stared at each other a moment and the frustration in Sirius’ eyes was plain. It was not simply frustration at learning of yet another secret between them but frustration with himself and his own splintered memory, that he couldn’t reconstruct August 1981 in his head well enough to remember if there had been any tells, if Remus had been acting especially distant or peculiar. He took pity on him, “I was gone for a week, here, seeing to the funeral and to Da. Prongs and Lily were in hiding already, of course. Wormtail came to the burial. When I came back home, you wouldn’t look me in the eye. I didn’t know Dorcas Meadowes had died while I was gone,” Remus looked back at the tea kettle, “We weren’t telling each other things by then, I… to tell you the truth, I don’t think I could have borne the vulnerability.”_

_“Like as not I’d have thrown it in your face somehow,” Sirius said wearily, and spoke to the pictures on the wall as he said, “I’m sorry, Moony, I always liked your parents.”_

_“They liked you,” Remus said, honestly, “Da used to ask after you,” Remus was telling the truth. His father had always asked after Sirius, which had been nice and affirming when things were good between them, but which had grown steadily more difficult to stand as the war had chipped away at his and Sirius’ relationship. Eventually, not long after Mam’s death, as a matter of course, Remus had lost his temper and punched the table, begged his father not to bring Sirius up again. And then of course Halloween had come, the war had ended and Sirius’ name had grown infamous, and from Da’s guilty, pitying looks, Remus could tell that he wanted to ask, but, bless him, he never did_.

_“Where are they buried?” Sirius asked._

_“At the church in town, by the pond,” Remus hesitated before offering, “We could go visit them if you like, as long as you stay in dog form.”_

_Sirius hummed noncommittally, resting his chin between his knees, “They didn’t bury the dead at Azkaban, you know. Not enough space, I reckon. They’d burn them. And sometimes, if the wind blew a certain way — well, there was no glass in my window, was there? — my cell would fill all up with smoke and sometimes I’d hide from it but other times I’d gulp it in and fairly pray that I’d suffocate, and then they’d have to burn me up, too, and then I imagined I’d at least be on the bloody wind blowing away from that forsaken place, or else maybe just gone altogether.”_

_Remus reckoned some part of that was meant to be an explanation of Sirius’ distracted behavior in burning the tea kettle, and he was quite sure he hadn’t meant to say all of it. Once the words started, they had seemed to spill out of him, painting too visceral a picture in Remus’ mind of Sirius welcoming death in that dreadful place. He’d taken a couple of steps towards him, and some of that vulnerability stained his voice softly as he said, “I’m so glad you’re alive.”_

_Sirius hugged his legs harder, peering through his hair at Remus as he asked tightly, “Are you?”_

_“Of course, I am,” Remus reassured him. Sirius frowned as if Remus had misunderstood the question somehow._

_“That’s not what I…” Sirius dropped the sentence, picked his head up off his knees and studied Remus. Then he shook his head, scraping his hands into his hair and saying, “I feel like I’m mad,” he said, “Everything is so… ephemeral,”_

_Remus chuckled, “That’s a ten Galleon word.”_

_“I’m serious, Moony,” Sirius said, though his lips twitched at the tired old pun, “Doesn’t it feel that way to you?”_

_“What way?” Remus asked, as he turned to finish sorting out the groceries._

_“Like… like everything’s going to slip away,” Sirius said, “It’s so strange seeing you here, like this, again.” Remus pulled the carton of eggs from the bag, wishing it hadn’t been on the bottom with the way he’d dropped the bag by the door._

_“Again?” Remus asked, as puffs of steam started to escape the mouth of the kettle._

_“Well, we already did this,” Sirius said bleakly, “It already slipped away from us,” Remus opened the carton of eggs and reality seemed to drop into the pit of his stomach like a stone. Eleven eggs, shattered and oozing their contents. And nestled in the twelfth little divot, Sirius’ right ear, the pale skin bruising a deathly grey now._

_“Sirius,” Remus said, desperately, looking over his shoulder. Sirius was directly behind him, faster and more silently than he ever could have moved from the floor in the waking world of the living._

_“Not the day I’d have chosen to relive,” Sirius said with a wry smile, his hands circling Remus’ waist, “But it’s always good to see you.”_

_“Ephemeral,” Remus repeated, lucid now so that the kitchen seemed a vague imitation of his parents’ cottage, like a setpiece in a play, “Fleeting… like a dream...”_

_“Yes, Moons. Exactly like a dream” Sirius said, his smile turning sad before he brushed his lips against Remus’ cheek, “Time to wake up.”_

_The tea kettle shrieked._

Remus woke up, but the noise did not cease. Outside the sun was almost ready to rise and Remus blinked in the watery pre-dawn light. It dawned on him that the sound was not a tea kettle whistle, but the alarm he’d placed on the hourglass, urging him to give the potion one of its twice daily stirs. He scrambled from the bed, tripping over the dangling waist sash of the dressing gown he still had on. He grabbed the broom handle and gave the potion its stirs, simultaneously turning the hourglass back over. It silenced at once as the sand began trickling through the narrow channel.

He set the broom handle aside and ran his hands through the tangles of his damp hair. That dream had been different than the others. It had felt like it may be the case, but he hadn’t let himself believe it, but the Sirius of his dream had seemed so real. It was tempting to believe it could actually be his spirit, but how could that be? Remus’ fingers wonderingly grazed his cheek, the echo of Sirius’ lips there couldn’t really just be in head, could it?

He crawled back into bed and tried too hard to fall asleep, so eager to climb back into some nearness with Sirius that, of course, he was doomed to remain awake.

  


_5 July, 1996_

The idea had come to Remus quite suddenly. He had been watching from Sirius’ four -poster bed as the sickly shimmering steam curled up from the cauldron and caught the thin morning light before it dissipated among the cobwebs. He had been avoiding the matter of the _flesh of the servant_ because it seemed to have one inevitable outcome; harming Kreacher. His stomach had turned at the thought every time. He held no particular love for the House-Elf — Kreacher’s disposition was unpleasant at the best of times, and the role he had played in Sirius’ death was not inconsiderable — but Remus wished him no ill. Despite himself, he found himself sympathizing with Kreacher’s plight. Merlin knew he’d spent his fair share of his life on the fringes of wizarding society, rendered worthless by his lycanthropy, isolated with the ghosts of those to whom he’d once been devoted. 

When Remus looked at things with a wider lens, he and Kreacher truly weren’t all that different. Subjugated by wizards, embittered by loss, and now quite alone, apart from the unlikely presence of each other in this dour, haunted place. And, though he could not exactly count Kreacher as a _friend,_ since his return to Grimmauld Place they had formed a civil kind of bond, like that of two strangers shipwrecked on the same barren shore. They didn’t share comradery or fondness, but Remus thought they at least shared a common understanding. He had treated Kreacher with the kindness that so much of the Elf’s long, enslaved life had lacked, and Kreacher had given Remus space, aided in the making of his potion without prying, and had made sure he ate at least once a day. Remus had spent too much of his life hungry to take that for granted.

But Remus wouldn’t need to harm Kreacher now that the inelegant solution had revealed itself to him. He had been almost surprised at the depth of his own relief. That relief was giving way rapidly to frustration, however, as he levitated a meter off the dusty marble of the front hall. He had tried every variation of Severing Charm that he knew upon the mounted head of a House-Elf who, per the brass plaque, had once answered to the name Kritter, but the leathery skin remained unmarked. Reaching his wit’s end, Remus let fly a Blasting Curse, the tip of his wand nearly touching the withered tip of Kritter’s nose.

The curse came out stronger than he’d intended and the force of it sent Remus careening into the opposite wall rather hard, rattling the glass sconces of the gas lamps, before he hit the ground with a painful _thump._ Remus cringed as a shrill voice filled the hall, _“HALF-BREED SCUM!”_ Walburga Black crowed from her portrait, “HOW DARE YOU TRESPASS HERE, BEFOULING MY NOBLE HOUSE WITH YOUR _MONGREL FILTH!”_

Remus dragged himself to his feet with the help of the ornate banister and hurried down to Walburga’s portrait. She was near foaming at the mouth with rage, her grey eyes round and mad, flashing the whites like a spooked horse, which she rather resembled with her nostrils flared and her long, regal neck taut, “ _FREAK!_ ” She screeched, her rancor redoubling at the sight of him, “MY DISHONORABLE BLIGHTED REPROBATE OF A SON HAS NO RIGHT TO BRING AN _ODIOUS MONSTER_ INTO MY _HOME!”_ her eyes flicked around the hall frantically, searching for said reprobate, “WILL YOU NOT SHOW YOUR INDECENT FACE, SIRIUS? PITEOUS COWARD OF A _LION!_ SPINELESS WRETCH! SHAME OF MY FLESH! HAVING YOUR _ABOMINABLE PET_ FACE ME!? FACE ME YOURSELF, YOU UNGRACIOUS, DESPICABLE, DISLOYAL, _DISGRACEFUL—_ ”

The silence seemed to tremble with Walburga’s barely-contained ire as Remus finally managed to tug the drapery shut. He leaned against the wall, forehead against his forearm, surprised by how winded he felt. For the thinnest of instants, hopeless self-pity gnawed at his edges and he tightened his jaws against it. If he allowed it to take him, he doubted very much he’d ever free himself from it again, and he’d never be any good to anyone, and he’d never pull Sirius out of the darkness. Remus heard a shuffling sound at the top of the stair, and winced. The silence extended another few seconds before Kreacher croaked, “Master Remus,”

Remus pulled away from the wall and forced himself to look at Kreacher. He was standing a few steps up from Remus, leaving them nearly on a level to make direct eye contact. Kreacher’s milky moon-eyes moved from Remus’ face, to the mounted head of Kritter the House-Elf, and back again to Remus. Kritter remained as intact as Remus had found him, though there was a rather telling circle scorched into the damask wallpaper around him, “Hello, Kreacher,” he greeted, a bit gingerly, .

“What is Master Remus doing?” Kreacher asked, looking back at Remus. His eyes narrowed, studying Remus intensely as he asked, in a considerably more dangerous tone, “What is it wanting with Kritter?”

“Erm,” Remus nearly lied, nearly stammered out a tepid ‘oh, nothing’, but that wouldn’t do. Drawing on his nearly-dry well of Gryffindor courage, he straightened his back and replied honestly, “It’s for my project. My potion calls for, er,” he gestured to Kritter and said as gently as he could (but not nearly gently enough), “A bit of him.”

“ _Her_ ,” Kreacher corrected, in a tone so cold and crisp he barely sounded like the same Elf, “Kritter is being my sister, Master Remus.”

“Oh, I,” Remus said, shocked for some reason by this new piece of information. He looked at the Elf’s head again. She was rather desiccated, but he could imagine that her protruding snout-like nose may have looked quite similar to Kreacher’s at one time, “She’s lovely,” he said, automatically, immediately kicking himself for the plain falsity of it.

Kreacher huffed, “ _Ugly as sin_ my Mistress used to call her, _but faithful as virtue._ Elves is not being bred to be looked at, Master Remus,” His voice had grown haughty and he did not sway as he descended another step, narrowed eyes pinning Remus to the spot, “You is not knowing, on account of you is a half-blood and a werewolf and poor,” he did not say these words as the barbed insults that they were in the mouths of Purebloods like Walburga Black, but as the plain facts that they were, “But the look of an Elf is not mattering if an Elf is not loyal, and hard-working, and obedient and Kritter is the most _good_ Elf Kreacher is ever knowing, _sir._ ” his tone turned snide as it reached the compulsory honorific.

“I’m sure you’re right, Kreacher,” Remus said appeasingly, “I meant no offense, truly. I’m sure Kritter was a tremendously good Elf.”

“A tremendously good Elf _,”_ Kreacher repeated, before muttering furiously to himself, _“The werewolf’s potion is needing a tremendously good Elf, is it…_ ”

“I promise you, I meant her no harm, really,” Remus said, trying to believe his own words, unconvincing in light of the scorch marks on the wall.

“If Master Remus is meaning Kritter no harm, why is it _blasting_ at her head and disturbing my Mistress?” Kreacher’s scowl was murderous.

“I only meant to say,” Remus couldn’t believe he, who had once been so adept at talking his way out of detention, out of the suspicions of neighbors and employers, out of questions from his father as to whether he was seeing anyone, was failing so completely at manipulating a half-senile House-Elf, “I had no intention to _misuse_ her—”

Kreacher interrupted Remus’ excuses with a strangely throaty bray, and it took Remus half of a second to identify it as a _laugh_. He’d never heard Kreacher laugh before, “Misuse? What is you knowing of _misuse_ , Master Remus?” Kreacher shook his head and the folds of skin around his jowls trembled, an awful smile curling the slash of his mouth mirthlessly, “Misuse is all wizards ever is having in mind for House-Elves and Kreacher isn’t seeing why a werewolf would be any different. Neither of us is being _human_ , sir, but at least you is a person. Kritter isn’t ever being a person, Master Remus, she is dead and _tremendously good_ and best of all, she is _useful_.”

Remus’ throat constricted and for a second he was sure he was going to retch, the acerbic tone of Kreacher’s voice like a punch to the solar plexus. He had expected any number of reactions from Kreacher when he heard him on the stairs, but surely not a cutting lecture on the marginalization of Magical Beings. It was hard to say whether he was being sarcastic or whether he believed that usefulness was the end-all, be-all, and each possibility was worse than the alternative somehow. Shame hissed in his veins and he could feel heat rising in his cheeks. Kreacher was _right_ , of course, absolutely right and Remus was not only a bastard, but worse, a hypocrite. He opened his mouth to try and say as much, to make some inadequate apology, but his throat was still closed and he managed only an unintelligible sound before Kreacher went on.

“Don’t be saying you is sorry, sir, Kreacher is _proud_ to be a House-Elf just as Kritter is,” some of the anger seemed to fall from his features, the many furrows upon his brow shifting from rage to curiosity, “Kreacher proudly served the Noble House of Black for twenty and a hundred years and so Kreacher is knowing Dark Magic when he is seeing it, and Dark Magic is what Master Remus is doing,” his watery eyes glanced skyward for a second, indicating the cauldron that bubbled away on the top floor. 

“It may be Dark Magic,” Remus said, and one of Kreacher’s eyes narrowed again, and he rushed to amend, “ _It is,_ it _is_ Dark Magic,” he felt dizzy just saying it aloud, “But it,” he reached for the words to make the justification that pounded in his heart. He wished that he could put his hand in the pocket that held Sirius’ ear without drawing Kreacher’s shrewd attention, “It… it’s for a good cause,” he managed, and it sounded platitudinous, but it must have also had the ring of truth because the curiosity took over Kreacher’s features entirely now.

“What is Master Remus’ good cause?” he asked, and his tone very nearly resembled the regular conversational one that Remus was used to.

“I’m bringing—” Remus hesitated. Sirius and Kreacher had always had a contentious relationship insofar as he knew, and Kreacher had had few qualms about betraying Sirius into Bellatrix’s hands . Kreacher might not joyfully welcome his homecoming. Better to be vague, he thought, “I’m going to... restore the family of Black to,” there came the echo of Sirius’ voice in his head to guide him, “Its former glory.” There it was, finally, the ability to say the right thing that had so eluded him a moment before. _Thanks, Pads._

Kreacher studied him for a long minute and Remus kept thinking the House-Elf was on the verge of asking him to clarify, of calling out his half-bluff. He was surprised that when the Elf did at last speak, he said, “Kritter and the rest is no good to you.”

“Pardon?” Remus said, looking at Kritter’s mounted head again.

“They is Preserved with Elf-Magic,” Kreacher said, puffing up his skinny chest a little, “More lasting than wizard magic, there is no wizard spell or tool that is strong enough to slice them, and even if you _could_ , they is no use to you,” Remus opened his mouth to ask again, but Kreacher went on, “You is not just doing Dark Magic, Master Remus, you is doing _Blood Magic_. For that you is needing flesh of life, and they is not having any of that for long years, sir.”

“Oh,” Remus said, unsure how else to respond to so direct a correction, “Oh…”

“Dark Magic is not coming cheaply, Master Remus. Maybe you is not understanding that,” Kreacher rasped quite gravely. Remus nearly could have laughed, the entire situation so bleak it felt as absurd as a dream. Kreacher was both very right and very wrong. The price of Dark Magic was indeed great, but in fact there was _nothing_ clearer to Remus than the cost he had taken on. He wanted to correct Kreacher, wanted to tell him that, _no_ , he was actually quite aware that this magical endeavor was costing him everything, things he would never have believed he’d compromise. But again, Kreacher spoke before he did, saying plainly, “Kreacher will help you.”

It took him a blinking second to realize what Kreacher was offering, “What?! But, I… you—”

“Kreacher is sworn by honor and oath to serve the House of Black,” Kreacher said, a bit impatiently, as if explaining to a baby, “If you is needing Elf-flesh to restore that most Noble and Prestigious house, then it is Kreacher’s duty and pleasure to assist you.”

The wrongness of it twisted like some primordial worm in Remus’ gut. He ought to explain, ought to be explicit and transparent, ought to inform Kreacher properly what it was he was offering. Merlin, he _should_ abandon the whole grim affair and bury Sirius’ ear and grieve properly and never for another second entertain the prospect of _blood sacrifices._

_And yet._

The spell — per Harry’s letter, per Wormtail’s recitation — stipulated that the flesh of the servant be _willingly given._ And here was Kreacher, willingly offering it. For a moment Remus felt quite outside of himself, as if he were watching this scene play out in a movie, the back of his shabby robes to the camera, the blue flames of the gas lamps casting the whole scene in somber tones, staged so dramatically upon the diagonal of the stairs. Kreacher blinked and his trusting gaze faltered, and in another few frames of film, the window of opportunity would shut forever and a chance this purely suited to Remus’ goal would not present itself again.

And Sirius would be gone forever, _yet again_ a prisoner, alone in the dark hall of mirrors between this world and the next.

The man that looked like Remus said, with the guile of any other silver screen villain, “There has been no braver House-Elf than you, surely.” If Remus had said it, no doubt it would have come off as patronizing, but this look-alike made it sound nearly heroic.

Kreacher beamed hideously at the praise and clicked his gnarled fingers, a knife materializing in them instantaneously, presumably summoned from the kitchen below. Without fanfare, still smiling at the compliment, Kreacher held out his left arm, lifting the knife above his head.

“Wait!” Remus was relieved when the man who so resembled him intervened. Kreacher’s smile flickered at the interruption, “It doesn’t need to be something as useful to you as a hand! P-perhaps something more… expendable?”

Kreacher looked at his hand and then lowered it, “What is Master Remus having in mind?”

“Perhaps…” a measuring gaze flicked up and down Kreacher and when the Remus look-alike spoke again, there was a hint of something like satisfaction or inspiration in his tone, “Perhaps your ear would do.”

“Very well, sir,” Kreacher said, pinching the ear between thumb and forefinger to steady it. It was not a dissimilar gesture to how Remus had steadied Sirius’ ear to pierce it at fifteen, but this was sure to be far bloodier and entirely less erotic. For all his talk of strong lycanthropic stomachs, Remus had never been able to watch the gorier bits of movies, even when he knew the viscera on screen was just a load of corn syrup and dye and gelatin. He wanted to cover his eyes with his hands but at that command to his physical body, to his horror, he stuttered back into it. 

It wasn’t a movie, of course, and the villain didn’t look like him, he _was_ him. And in one deft swipe, Kreacher brought the knife down and unburdened his head of his ear. Remus did not shut his eyes fast enough and saw the torrent of blood, so red and _red-smelling_ that it made his head spin. In a manner of seconds, Kreacher had sealed the wound with a touch of a fingertip, but in Remus’ mind the after-image of it flared bright and brutal. Kreacher tapped the ear in his palm with a fingertip as well and held it out to Remus, who stared at it, uncomprehending. Kreacher’s ears had always reminded him of bat’s wings on his head, but it didn’t look like a wing separate from its twin. It hardly even looked like an ear, just an odd misshapen bit of flesh. 

He registered that Kreacher had said something, something about keeping the flesh fresh, Preserved differently than Kritter. Independently of his will, he reached out and accepted the ear from Kreacher, and his skin wanted to crawl off his bones at the unsettling _warmth_ of it.

Remus wasn’t sure how he had made it from the front hall up to Sirius’ bedroom, and yet here he was, dropping Kreacher’s offering beside the bone of his former master, Orion. His hand was glad to be rid of it.

He stood uncertainly for an unknowable amount of time; it may have been seconds or hours. He felt _dirty_. He had never felt the equal of this emotion, perhaps waking alone in the Shrieking Shack, smelling Snape and knowing something was dreadfully wrong. Perhaps on the first of November, 1981, when the _Prophet_ told him he’d been wrong to trust Sirius with his very body and soul. Perhaps when he came to in the Forbidden Forest a couple of years back, knowing he’d likely cost Sirius his freedom, if not in fact his life.

Even those most dire moments had not been like this. Once at school Peter had told them of a nightmare he’d had where he woke up only after realizing he was an Inferi. Remus thought this must feel a little like that; he was putrid, he was not himself, his will was hardly his own.

He saw the discarded dressing gown and entertained the thought of a bath to soothe him for only a second, abandoning the idea when it was followed immediately by wondering how hard it would be to drown one’s self.

His knees hurt and looking down, Remus realized his legs had given way. He tried to push himself back up, but wound up staring at his hands on the floor. Pale, long fingers with knobby joints, nails bitten nearly to the quick. There was a scar on the back of his left hand and a few fingers were dreadfully crooked from being broken, all of them rheumy and tired from the monthly ordeal of rearranging the fragile rows of bone.

His view of them blurred. He didn’t know if he was crying. His chest felt very tight, as though a hand were trying to pop his lungs like grapes. He rested his forehead against the floor between his hands, pressing hard enough that it hurt.

Maybe if he pressed hard enough, his skull would fall open and some of the excess would spill out of his head and across the moth-bitten carpet.

What in Mordred’s forsaken name had become of him? Recriminations spiraled out in his head in sickening fractals. He, who ought to have been a champion of marginalized Magical Beings, he, who had thought so very much of his and Kreacher’s _shared trauma_ had taken up the weapon that had scarred them both. Had used Kreacher’s own conditioning, that sycophantic drive to serve, and had bent it to his own Dark purposes. 

Always Remus had prided himself on his compassion, on his level head, on his restraint. _You’re too good for the likes of us, Moony,_ Sirius had so often teased, back when they had been children only playing at good and evil. What would Sirius say if he could see him now, see how he had twisted and sullied and perverted himself? What _would_ Sirius say, when he emerged from the cauldron, whole, only to find that his Moony had compromised himself down to little more than a husk?

It was too late to turn from his task now. The only thing that would be fouler than having harmed Kreacher to bring Sirius back would be to have harmed Kreacher for no reason at all. And perhaps Sirius would not want him like this, would reject him in disgust. The thought lanced through him, tugging his innards, but it was still better. Sirius deserved another chance, and if he wished to use that chance to cast Remus away from him, that was a decision he deserved the chance to make.

At some point exhaustion or lack of oxygen dragged him off to sleep. Some hours later he was awoken by familiar voices downstairs, Molly Weasley fondly scolding Tonks for knocking over the troll foot umbrella stand as usual, Walburga’s portrait shrieking until Kingsley managed to silence her. Remus’ body was stiff and aching from his folded up position on the floor, but he did not move. He stared at the dust bunnies under the bed. 

Sirius had not come to his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yell at me in the comments, please and thank you!


	5. Untainted

_6 July, 1996_

Remus stirred the potion when the time came, detached as he frowned into the cauldron’s scintillating crystal clear depths. He could hear Molly Weasley knocking about in the kitchen downstairs, could hear voices talking and occasionally laughing. The sound felt _wrong_ , out of place. It felt profane somehow for the sounds to be there, like swearing in a church or desecrating a grave. Remus nearly smiled at the irony of his own thought. He knew he was a hypocrite, that he had no right to take offense at much of anything anymore. But it was as if the ordinary drips, and creaks, and whistling drafts of the house did not welcome the intrusion of comradery and warmth. Or perhaps it was just _Remus_ who did not welcome the intrusion. He wondered, was this how Kreacher had felt a year prior, when they’d all first turned up, the rivals of those whom he was loyal to, inviting themselves so blithely into his home and disposing of things that to him had value, all under the banner of Sirius’ _permission_? Just because the wards obeyed, how had that made Sirius’ say worth a damn, when anyone could see that in everything but law, Grimmauld Place was _Kreacher’s house._

 _You have no right_ , Remus grimly reminded himself, _to relate yourself to Kreacher that way._ His stomach churned at the memory of his own easy dissociation, distancing himself from Kreacher as it suited his needs, just as he’d _related_ to Kreacher as it suited his needs. Most of all as it had suited his guilt. Remus set aside the broom handle stirrer and shut his eyes tight, swaying slightly on his feet so that he had to catch himself against the wall. It had not quieted, the mantra of self-recriminations in his head. _What have I become?_ He cringed self-consciously at the Byronic drama of the very thought, but he could no sooner stop its repeating than he could un-deceive Kreacher or un-desecrate Orion’s grave.

At a knock on the door — to the cheery pattern of ‘ _Shave and a Haircut_ ’ — Remus startled so badly he nearly lost his balance altogether. His heart raced as he looked around the room, the massive cauldron that dominated the space, the rumpled bedding, the stack of dirty dishes by the bed. The top of the chest of drawers, where Orion Black’s bone and Kreacher’s ear sat beside Sirius’ hairbrush and a stack of books, plain as anything, as if they were commonplace household odds and ends. He had moved the cauldron up here, so confident that that would make it easy to hide, but how — _how —_ had he so underestimated…? For the first time, it really struck Remus the distance that yawned now between himself and the other members of the Order, who he had once been the same as. The things in this room, the vile objects, the Dark magic brewing away, had grown mundane to him, when the Remus of only weeks before would have been aghast. Remus frantically tried to think of a way to conceal the Dark doings that had consumed his days for weeks, but the more he looked through the eyes of old Remus, the more incrimination seemed to litter the room.

For a second he entertained _allowing_ himself to be caught. Whatever Order member it was out in the hall would stop him before he could do any more harm, before he could bend the laws of nature past breaking. But the fact remained that he was only one ingredient shy of having Sirius _back_ , and he was no less selfish and obsessed than he’d been all along. The person outside the door knocked ‘ _two bits_ ’, uncertainly, pulling him from his thoughts again, and Tonks’ voice followed, inquiring gently, “Remus? Are you in there?”

In lieu of answering her, Remus crossed to the door in a couple of long strides, pulling it open just wide enough to make room for his body to squeeze through. He looked down at her, always forgetting whenever they went a bit without seeing each other face to face that she was more than a head shorter than him. She tended to be larger than life in his head. Remus took in the uncharacteristic nut-brown of Tonks’ presently limp shoulder-length hair, thinking to himself that it was an odd choice what with her penchant for bright colors and sometimes gravity-defying hairstyles, but who was he to judge. Her presently grey eyes widened at the sight of him before she rearranged her expression into a pleasant smile, “Wotcher,” she greeted, more tentative than he’d ever heard her.

“Hello, Tonks,” he said, trying to sound conversational and balanced, running a hand through the tangle of his hair and hoping he did not look quite as dreadfully out of sorts as he was. Judging by the concern that had flashed so briefly in Tonks’ eyes, he looked even worse that he felt.

“Hi,” she said, and shifted her weight from one boot-clad foot to the other, mirroring him slightly as she ran a hand a bit self-consciously through her own hair, “Er, how are you?” she asked, and immediately made a face at herself, “ _Sorry_ , erm, that’s an idiotic question. You’re quite miserable. I mean, er, not to put words in your mouth!! But I imagine you are. Not that what I _imagine_ ought to matter but—”

“I’m quite miserable,” Remus confirmed, smiling a little despite himself at Tonks’ ramble. Her clumsiness was always disarmingly lovable.

“Right,” she said gravely, and her grey eyes shone with sympathy. The shade was a bit different, but the shape and the peculiar brightness-from-within of them wasn’t unlike Sirius’. They were second cousins, after all, and Remus wondered if he was seeing Tonks’ own natural eyes for the first time, “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, with enough conviction that it sounded nothing like a platitude, “You deserve to be happy.”

A coarse laugh burst out of Remus at that, “Don’t be so sure,” he chided, crossing his arms so she wouldn’t notice the way his hands were shaking.

Tonks canted her head to one side, studying him, “But I _am_ sure,” she said, plainly, “Regardless of what self-defeating nonsense you’ve got going round up there,” she reached up and rapped a knuckle lightly against his forehead and he couldn’t help but smile at her.

Remus liked Tonks. He had ever since he’d met her. She was warm, and bright, silly and yet eminently capable, kind, and quick-witted, and always good for a laugh. She really wasn’t overly much like Sirius in personality, but there was a certain guileless charm about her that always put Remus in mind of how Sirius had been back at school. Her magic, so organic and effortless in its mastery, always carrying some of her inherent quirkiness and yet always graceful, was not dissimilar in its signature from Sirius’. Remus had wondered at times if Tonks perhaps was something like what Sirius might have been, had he been brought up like her, encouraged instead of reproached for the very things that made him special, free from the vast and demanding shadow of that blasted family tree. It hurt to think it, to try to imagine a version of Sirius without that dangerous, unquenchable need to _prove_ himself and to rebel, to rip free of expectations and rules just in case they might turn into shackles while he wasn’t paying attention.

“I tried checking on you, you know,” Tonks admitted, pulling Remus from his thoughts.

“Did you?” Remus frowned.

Tonks nodded, gaze leaving him to briefly examine the damask of oily, peeling wallpaper, “I did,” she confirmed, and Remus could tell that she was working hard to keep her voice casual “You were just about catatonic when I left you,” try as he might, Remus could hardly remember getting back to his parents’ cottage after the battle at the Ministry, too dense had the fog of fresh grief been, “You missed the next Order meeting and…” she shrugged one shoulder, “I was worried.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Tonks,” Remus reassured tiredly, leaning against the doorframe and rather wishing he could slip back into Sirius’ room and hide.

“Oh, I know you’ve been ‘round the block,” she said, her tone somehow at once dismissive and sympathetic, “No stranger to pain and loss, and so on and so forth.”

“Well, I'm not,” Remus said, not quite following but feeling like he ought to defend himself.

“I know, I know,” Tonks sounded frustrated with herself, and her eyes found his face again, “Anyway, you weren’t home when I went ‘round.”

“I was here,” Remus said, although he couldn’t be absolutely sure if that was true. It might have been the day Dumbledore had had him meet with Kurt, or he might have been out digging up her great-uncle’s grave.

Tonks made a face, her nose wrinkling and her lip curling even as her brow softened with renewed concern, “You’ve been here alone that long?” That surprised Remus a little. Had it been that long? Not too much more than a week. Remus supposed that to most people that would be longer than they wanted to spend in the haunted halls of Grimmauld Place, but one grew used to it. Remus had learned a long time ago just how much unpleasantness one could get used to. After all, he had been _used_ to sharing his body with the wolf since before he could write his own name without getting the ‘s’ backwards. He’d spent years _used_ to the ghosts of the Potters, and Wormtail, _used_ to believing that all he held dear and believed in had been betrayed by the person he had trusted most deeply. All told, he’d lived in places that were _worse_ than Grimmauld Place, objectively, places without running water, without glass in the window-frames, without anywhere to safely transform so that he had to resort to the mortification and inevitable injuries of using chains, “Remus,” Tonks’ hand brushed his, and she searched his eyes imploringly, “You don’t have to be alone. You shouldn’t be.”

Oh. It was the _alone_ bit that troubled her. Well, that was one of the things Remus was most accustomed to living with. It was safer, easier, to be alone. And surely it couldn’t have been more than ten days. That wasn’t so long to be alone, “Tonks, I’m alright,” he reassured her, though his voice came out sort of flat and a flicker of something like hurt passed quickly over her features.

“Remus?” Tonks said, her voice still soft, betraying nothing like the hurt he’d sworn he’d seen on her face. Her hand moved from his hand to his cheek and brushed it very softly before dropping back to her side, “Why don’t you come down and have a bite with everyone? Molly’s cooking to feed an army, of course.”

Something tightened in Remus’ chest at the cautious sweetness of Tonks’ touch, much as he worried it was misguided, and at the warm generosity of the invitation, at the sweet normalness of her. He must have been the first person to ever describe the offbeat young witch with the word _normal_ , but she was. Compared to the dark thorniness that he was cultivating within his own soul, she was all warmth and youth and goodness. Not _normal_ in a sense of being any less than extraordinary, but untouched by Darkness. Untainted. He shook his head hesitantly, “I don’t know, Tonks…” he murmured.

“Oh, come on, then, you need to eat,” she pointed out.

“I, erm, I’ve been eating,” he said, which was at least half true, “In the room, mainly.”

Tonks laughed, and it was so like Sirius in younger days, the way the moment of vulnerability vanished so that you doubted she had ever been anything but flashing eyes and grinning, “Yes, well, good luck asking Molly to bring you room service. I reckon that’d give her occasion to try out Ginny’s Bat Bogey Hex!”

Remus snorted at that despite himself, “I wouldn’t ask it of Molly, but Kreacher’s been doing it without my even asking.” He didn’t verbalize how sick he felt about that.

Tonks’ eyes widened and her brow crumpled comically, “That doesn’t sound a whit like Kreacher,” she said, “But at any rate, he’s gone.”

“Gone?!” Remus choked out, leaning against the doorframe to keep from falling.

Tonks looked very worried now, resting a hand on his arm as she explained, “Yes, Harry’s sent him off to work in the kitchens at Hogwarts, I think,” her hand squeezed his arm a little, “Remus, are you alright? You’re very pale.”

Remus nodded sluggishly, “Yeah, yeah,” he insisted, “I’m alright.”

“Didn’t realize you were so attached to the rude little blighter,” she said, her intelligent eyes fixed on him and brow furrowing. To Remus’ horror, she was trying to figure out what was going on. She was an Auror after all, and for someone with so much practice, he was doing a shit job of being inconspicuous.

“Yes, well, perhaps I’ve gone soft in my old age,” Remus tried to deflect.

For once, Tonks didn’t bother to tell him that he wasn’t as old as he seemed to think he was. Merlin knew he felt _ancient_. “Oh, Remus,” Tonks said, very quietly, and there was something tender in her tone, softer even than what had been there before, and it threatened to make Remus’ eyes prickle for some reason, “You _make_ me worry, I can’t very well help it.”

“You really haven’t got to,” he said, automatically, the words coming off a tad impatient.

“It’s not good for you, just holing up and punishing yourself,” she sniffled and Remus realized that there were tears in the grey eyes that were not unlike Sirius’, “I know you miss him, but…”

“No,” Remus said brusquely, pulling his arm from her grasp a bit too suddenly, “I don’t _miss_ him. Tonks, I…” What in Merlin’s name could he say? He couldn’t talk about how it felt without talking about _all_ of it, and he couldn’t do that.

“You don’t have to deny it, Remus,” Tonks said, around a watery smile, “Everyone knows Sirius was your best mate.”

“Tonks, I appreciate it, but, really,” Remus shook his head, “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right, I probably don’t,” she admitted, swiping at her eyes impatiently and looking away, “But I know that you shouldn’t be alone with it,” she set her shoulders and met his gaze again. Her eyes with blazing with determination and concern, bright with tears and with the confidence that she was _right._ It made her look more like Sirius, staggeringly so, “Just give me your word you’ll come downstairs?”

Remus nodded, never having been able to say no to that look, “You have my word.”

Tonks nodded too, “Right. Good. S-see you in a bit, then.” and she turned on her heel and hurried down the stairs.

Remus stared after her for a couple of minutes. He was torn between not wanting to disappoint her because he cared for her, not wanting to give her cause to scrutinize him and notice something amiss, not wanting to let the Darkness he had adopted stain her goodness, and wanting _desperately_ to slink back into Sirius’ room and hide. Within his pocket, he ran the pad of his thumb along the seashell curve of Sirius’ ear. He wished very much that he could just hide until he had Sirius back, and face the Order as he had faced so much in life, with Sirius at his side. But of course, he would not have Sirius back until he completed the potion, and there was one component that he was still missing. And how we was going to acquire it, he hadn’t a clue.

Remus deliberated at the top of the stairs for an immeasurable stretch of time, before finally the food smells wafting up from the kitchen proved irresistible and he went down. He braced himself outside of the kitchen door, drawing in a few shaky breaths in an effort to steel himself. His palms were sweating and he wiped them on his robes. The trepidation he felt reminded him of his first couple of years at Hogwarts, when he’d recover from the full moon enough to leave the infirmary and head to Gryffindor Tower, sure that each month would be the one that cost him his friends. He reminded himself that every time his fear had been unfounded, girded himself, and opened the door to the kitchen.

“Remus, dear!” Molly’s voice exclaimed, and a second later he was engulfed in a warm hug. A lump rose in his throat, for some reason. She held him at arm’s length and looked him up and down, before tutting, “I might’ve guessed,” she released him and nudged him toward the scrubbed wooden table, “Sit, sit, I’ll bring you a plate.”

“Molly, you don’t have—” he started to say.

“Shush,” Molly swatted his arm, “You’re not leaving my sight until you’ve licked the plate clean. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, smiling despite himself as he obediently took a seat.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was in the seat across from him, eyes glittering with mirth over a teacup, “Good evening, Lupin,” he greeted.

“Hi, Kingsley,” Remus said, trying to remember how to have a conversation, “How are—” The sudden sound of shattering china interrupted him, and without realizing it Remus had drawn his wand. Kingsley laid a hand on his arm at the same time Remus’ eyes found the source of the noise, Tonks bashfully _Vanishing_ the bits of a broken plate, “Sorry,” he said to Kingsley, not meeting his eyes, “I reckon I’m a bit jumpy.”

“Understandable,” Kingsley said generously, inclining his head, “But it can be dangerous, acting before you think.”

He wasn’t trying to embarrass him, Remus knew that. Kingsley wasn’t the sort. He also had no way of knowing just how much acting without thinking Remus had done lately. Before Remus could reply, a plate heaped with food was placed in front of him carefully and then Tonks was plopping into the seat beside him at the table, “Alas, I’ve been banished again from the handling of fragile things,” she announced in a tone of mock-grief.

“A pity,” Kingsley said gamely, in his characteristic deadpan. Tonks pantomimed wiping a tear from her eye, nodding.

“You did a marvelous job not dropping this,” Remus teased, gesturing to his plate with his fork, a little surprised at how easily he picked up the rhythm of people enough to _joke_.

“Thank you for noticing,” Tonks smiled, batting her eyes in an overblown attempt at demure. Even so, he suspected some of the smile had to be genuine, as before his eyes the tips of her mousy hair brightened to pink.

“Yes, well, it was quite a feat,” Remus said, before his mouth was too full of delicious food to leave room for banter. He was happy enough to sit there and listen to Tonks and Kingsley converse, allowing their friendly rapport with each other to distract him most of the way from the wasteland of his own thoughts. Their discussion spanned an impressive many topics, ranging everywhere from the current Quidditch season, to the latest petty rivalries in the Auror Department, to their differing taste in Muggle music. Here, Remus had to put down his fork and weigh in, offering them recommendations that would suit both Tonks’ love of pop and punk and Kingsley’s penchant for jazz and folk. They both seemed surprised, for some reason, to learn that Remus had a very well-rounded knowledge of Muggle music. He wondered how unlike himself or how secretive he had become over the years if this came as a shock to anyone; among the members of the first Order of the Phoenix, it had been common knowledge.

It occurred to him, even as his mouth talked, that he wasn’t sure the last time he had sat down and listened to a record. It was as jarring a revelation about himself as any he’d experienced lately. There had been a time that music had been a major part of Remus’ world, a daily ritual that Sirius not only understood but shared. It had been with fanatical devotion that they had listened to the recordings that mattered most until the grooves of the record were pressed into the meat of their brains. But there had been no music since Sirius fell, indeed Remus didn’t believe so much as a hum or whistle had escaped him since then. He longed for it, suddenly, missed it very much, but it felt lost to him. It was a melodramatic, inanely abstracted thought, but it seemed perfectly reasonable to him that music could not exist in a world without Sirius in it. 

They were still talking about music when Molly asked for a hand with the cleaning up. Remus gave Molly his seat insisting that she take a break, took his cleared plate and glass, and couldn’t help but smile a bit indulgently at Tonks as she followed him over to the sink. Her hair was all pink now, darker at the ends and curling riotously around newly-freckled cheeks. It suited her, didn’t look out of place on her as the drab brown had. Her eyes were still that Black-family shade of grey, and glittered as she commented, “I never would have taken you for a punk, Remus Lupin.”

“Oh, really?” Remus asked, as if anything about his demeanor gave it away. He added soap to the sponge and started scrubbing dishes by hand, “I hope I didn’t give you too dreadful a shock.”

Tonks snorted and elbowed his ribs, leaning a hip against the counter, “Oh, now that I _know_ it makes a lot of sense,” he raised an eyebrow at her, “It’s pretty punk rock being a werewolf, innit?”

Remus snorted, “That’s what Sirius always says.”

Tonks didn’t speak for a minute, before taking up a dishrag and starting to dry one of the plates Remus had already cleaned, saying in a strangely cautious way, “Well, he was a clever one.”

Remus realized after a second that he had spoken of Sirius in present tense and she had tactfully not corrected him. He felt a warm rush of appreciation for Tonks, looking at her sidelong, he waited until she had put down the plate before nudging her. She looked up at him, caught sight of his smile, and beamed, her heart-shaped face seeming to bloom brightly. It registered with Remus, perhaps a bit late, that that smile, and in fact, the rest of her behavior, was perhaps a little more than friendly, “Listen, Tonks,” he started, not quite sure what he was going to say. He was flattered, and he _did_ genuinely like her very much, and perhaps in a world where things had been quite different, the benefits might have outweighed the drawbacks. But that certainly wasn’t the world they were living in, and he liked her too much to be anything less than perfectly honest with her. Before he could figure out what he needed to say, he heard the sound of the kitchen door opening and his sensitive nose picked up an unpleasantly familiar smell. He groaned.

“Severus!” Molly greeted, with somewhat forced enthusiasm, “I didn’t know you’d be coming by! Have you eaten, there’s still plenty—”

“Thank you, Molly,” Severus said, his signature unfriendly tone rendering Molly’s invitations wasted, “But I’m not here for dinner. This is not a social call.”

“Has something happened, Snape?” Kingsley asked, tone professional.

“I’m here to find that out,” Severus said and Remus felt ice behind his ribs and looked over his shoulder at the doorway, where Severus stood, black-robed and sallow-faced as ever. His dark eyes met Remus’, “I’m here on Dumbledore’s orders. Making sure that Grimmauld Place has not been _compromised_.”

“It hasn’t been,” Remus replied crisply. Severus’ eyes narrowed, not leaving his. Remus felt the brush of Severus’ mind against his own, nudging at his memory as if to rifle invasively through a card catalog, but he shuttered his thoughts to him. Severus’ lip twitched but did not quite curl.

Kingsley and Molly had gotten to their feet and were getting their cloaks on, “It’s true, Severus,” Kingsley pointed out calmly, “Tonks and I did a full sweep when we got here, and found nothing amiss.” Remus’ recently-filled stomach churned; their sweep had not been as thorough as Kingsley believed but hopefully Severus would not suspect as much.

“I have to be getting home,” Molly cut in, in an obvious attempt to break the tension that was mounting in the room, “I’m sure I’ve left Arthur alone with the children quite long enough,” she smiled at Snape with forced warmth, “Since the house has already been looked over, perhaps you should be going, too?”

Severus returned a grimace that must have been his attempt at a smile, “I think I’ll stay a while longer.”

“S-suit yourself,” Molly said, glancing apologetically at Remus and Tonks before saying goodbye and bustling from the room.

Kingsley hesitated by the door, already wearing his traveling cloak but appearing cautious to leave the obviously tense atmosphere of the kitchen. He and Tonks exchanged a look and then he said, “I suppose I’ll be off as well. Goodnight, all.”

Silence reigned for a moment and then Severus turned back towards the door. Tonks’ voice stopped him, “Seriously?!” she exclaimed, hotly, “Kingsley and I know how to do our bloody job. The house is clean!”

“I’ve been here for days,” Remus pointed out, careful to keep his voice even, “Don’t you think I’d have alerted Dumbledore if anything was wrong?”

Severus turned back to them and took a couple of strides closer, dark robes swishing affectedly, studying Remus with an expression of thinly veiled distaste, “Why would I trust _you_ to recognize something as wrong?”

“Remus is a very capable—” Tonks began.

Severus waved a hand dismissively, “Don’t presume to tell me what Lupin _is_ ,” he said curtly, “I’ve known him since before you were _born_.”

“Severus,” Remus said, weary with the stale old rivalry but desperate to keep the man away from the cauldron bubbling incriminatingly upstairs.

“You think I can’t sense Dark Magic when it is near?” Severus said, haughtily. Remus forced his face to remain calm.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” Tonks hissed, every inch of her obviously protective of Remus as she turned one hip away from the sink, her small stature making the offensive stance a little less imposing than intended.

Severus scanned her face and posture before his gaze slid back to Remus, a look of something resembling disbelief on his face, “This is too rich,” he said, pausing for emphasis between each word, “What has it been — a fortnight? — and already you’ve replaced your guard dog, Lupin?”

Remus bristled, feeling the wolf’s hackles rise at the accusation, “Not another word, Snape,” he warned, through his teeth.

“Guard d—? What do—?” Tonks was clearly at a loss.

“I underestimated you, Lupin,” Severus drawled on nastily, “Once I heard, I thought for sure you’d have gone home and slit those limp wrists—”

The glass Tonks had been drying fell from her hands into the sink and shattered with a clatter, “Merlin _fuck_ , Snape, _too far!_ The man told you to _shut it!_ ” she cried, voice gone a bit shrill. With shaking fingers, Remus began gathering up the glass from the sink, cursing himself for leaving his wand on the table. He really ought to know better than that.

As if he hadn’t even heard Tonks, Severus went on acidly, “But no, here you are instead, enjoying this... _clumsy_ little domestic scene,” at the observation, Remus took a half-step away from Tonks. Snape snorted at that, as if it were confirmation.

Remus hardly recognized the growl of his own voice, glaring down at his sudsy hands as he chased a slippery shard of glass around the bottom of the sink, “ _Shut up, Snivellus._ ”

“Very original,” Severus said, taking a step closer so that his unwelcome scent seemed to fill Remus’ nostrils. His voice was lower, barely above a whisper as he said, “One suggestion, Lupin. If you want anyone to believe that you’re a grieving widow, you’re going to need a _veil._ ”

It wasn’t the world’s most adept barb, but it found its mark, and the wolf saw red.

The next thing Remus knew, he was breathing heavily and Tonks was staring at him through the silvery membrane of a Shield Charm. She was pale and shaken, the curls of her hair having flattened a bit, but when he registered her voice it was steely, not even the faintest hint of joking in her tone now. The Tonks that bantered about music and Quidditch was gone, and Tonks the fearless Auror and warrior stood in her place, “...said _drop it_ , Remus. Please, don’t make me use force.”

Remus opened his hands to raise them, to show that he was unarmed, and to his surprise, was met with the sound of glass breaking against the ground. He blinked at the bloody and broken glass that must have been in his hand an instant prior. When he looked back at Tonks, she was turned away from him, her attention focused instead on Severus. His face was white with fury and pain, thin lips pressed into a flat line, his left hand clutching his right forearm, where there appeared to be a not inconsiderable gash. Remus couldn’t remember it, but from the angle of the wound, he’d guess that Severus had only just managed to protect his face from taking the slash instead The blood that leaked between his fingers looking incredibly vivid against the pale of his skin and the black of his robes. Remus watched as if in slow motion as a drop of blood welled between Severus’ second and third finger, rolled along the back of his hand and dripped to the ground. It splashed in a small dark puddle between Severus’ feet.

“You can’t even look me in the eye!” Severus spat, reluctantly letting Tonks pry his hand from his arm — blood spilling from his cupped palm — and heal him with a hasty _Episkey,_ “Once a monster, always a monster,” he snarled. The words were hateful, but Remus felt quite impervious now, beyond Severus’ reach.

 _There it was_ , he thought. The blood of the enemy right there for the taking. What did it matter if Severus was livid, was loathsome? That was hardly anything new, anyway. He would have Sirius _back_ , Sirius would get another chance to _live._ Nothing else mattered, let Snape do his worst.

“Come on,” Tonks said, tugging Severus’ newly-intact arm, “You’re due back at Hogwarts, I’d say,” he must have been eager to leave because he let her march him to the door. Just before she left the room, she looked back at Remus, saying in a tone sharper than any he’d ever heard from her, “Don’t you move a bloody muscle.”

Remus nodded his agreement, but the second Tonks was out of sight, he was across the room, snatching his wand up from the table. He summoned a vial from the potions storeroom off of the kitchen and fell to his knees where Tonks had stood moments before. He carefully siphoned every drop of Severus’ blood from the flagstones with his wand, his heart fluttering at the sight of it nearly filling the vial. Harry had described Wormtail needing only a few drops of his blood, surely a whole vial had to be enough. It just had to be.

He heard Tonks’ booted footsteps in the hall and stoppered the vial, stowing it in his pocket. He gave Sirius’ ear a squeeze, as he might have squeezed Sirius’ hand in that moment, for good luck, for strength, to reassure them both.

Soon, they’d make good on their promises.


	6. Rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter you've all been waiting forrrr

_6 July, 1996 - 7 July, 1996_

“What the bloody fuck was that?” Tonks demanded, standing over Remus with her feet shoulder-width apart and her hands planted commandingly on her hips.

“Tonks, I’m sorry,” Remus said at once, surprised to find that he did really mean it. He wasn’t sorry for hurting Severus, and he definitely wasn’t sorry that the blood of the enemy was safely squirreled away in his pocket. But he _was_ sorry that Tonks had witnessed that and had had to intervene, when only a short while ago he’d been thinking how much he’d hate for his Darkness to touch her.

“Oh, don’t bloody apologize to _me!_ ” Tonks’ nostrils flared and her hair seemed to bristle, “ _I’m_ not the one you tried to take a chunk out of!”

“I’m sorry I put you in that position,” Remus amended honestly.

Tonks waved it off with one hand, pacing anxiously a few steps away and then back as she said, “Merlin, Remus, I-I know you’re _suffering_ , but you can’t just… just _attack_ people!” her grey eyes blazed as they met his, “You of all people, you can’t afford to!”

From most people it might have sounded patronizing, but Remus could hear the genuine fear for him in her voice, “I know, I do know. I’ll get my head straightened out, promise.”

Tonks snorted, “Save your promises for Dumbledore, Remus,” she said, cocking her head, “You know he’s probably getting an earful from Snape about what a _liability_ you are as we speak.”

Remus groaned. Of course, Tonks was absolutely right about that. And if Snape was talking to Dumbledore right now, he could expect to hear from Hogwarts first thing in the morning. Dumbledore would see through the heat of Snape’s reactionary anger and old grudge and recognize that something was in fact wrong. Circe, he probably already suspected something based on their last meeting, though he hadn’t come out and accused him of anything directly. With a summons from Dumbledore imminent, Remus felt a new urgency sparking impatiently in his gut, urging him to get upstairs to the potion. He climbed to his feet.

“For what it’s worth,” Tonks said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them, the anger having receded from her tone, “I forgive you, I s’pose.”

“You haven’t got to,” Remus said.

Tonks rolled her eyes, “I know damn well I haven’t _got to._ But Merlin knows Snape’s a vicious git, and he was antagonizing you, and…” she favored him with a wicked smile, “Honestly, that was pretty fucking punk rock.”

That surprised a real laugh out of Remus, and he half-heartedly chastised, “Bloody hell, Tonks…”

A silence fell between them again, getting more uncomfortable as the minutes stretched by. Just upstairs, only a couple floors away, a cauldron burbled with the promise of reunion, and Remus was just running out of patience, wondering how the hell he could excuse himself without rousing suspicion, when Tonks spoke again. Her voice was quieter and nearly _shy_ , “I… you know, I didn’t know. You and… that you and Sirius…”

“Don’t feel badly, please,” Remus said, “Practically nobody knows about us.”

“Sure, but I…” Tonks’ face turned very red and she looked away bashfully.

Remus’ heart twinged at the uncharacteristic embarrassment writ large in Tonks’ demeanor, “Tonks, I’m—”

“Fuck, _please_ don’t apologize!” she interrupted, wincing, “I can’t stomach _pity_.”

“That’s fine, seeing as I’m not offering any,” Remus said, never having been able to take being pitied himself. Eager as he was to get upstairs to Sirius, he didn’t want to leave things wrong-footed with Tonks, “I think you’re absolutely marvelous, and I’d really like to remain your friend. That’s not some consolation prize, either,” he pointed out, “I’m really very picky about my friends.”

“Right, well,” Tonks smiled a bit tightly, “Friends, then,” she shot forward and gave him a very quick and noncommittal hug, “I’d best be going.”

Remus walked her to the front door in silence, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing the portrait of Walburga as he said, “Goodnight, Tonks. Be safe.”

“Goodnight, Remus,” Tonks said, and was gone.

No sooner had the door shut behind her than Remus’ wand was in his hand, adjusting the wards and locks upon Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He couldn’t risk anyone walking into the house while he was in the midst of things; there was no real way of predicting what such Dark and ancient magic might stir up or unleash. The least he could do was try to keep everyone locked out and anything dangerous locked inside with him. 

Once he was satisfied that the house was secure, Remus turned on his heel and took the steps two at a time. Now that the place was empty, he was finally alone again with Sirius. He hardly managed to suppress a grin as he skidded into Sirius’ childhood bedroom, as giddy with anticipation as he might have been if he’d had reason to expect Sirius waiting naked for him on the scarlet bedding. In the back of his mind there had been an irrational worry that Severus might have been playing dumb, might have already been up here and tampered with the potion, might have ruined everything. To Remus’ immense relief, everything appeared to be just as he had left it.

The cauldron bubbled along, at once cheerful and sinister, the light shooting off of the potion’s surface like a Muggle sparkler. Remus’ heart seemed to climb into his throat as he gazed at it, his feet glued to the ground. He shook himself and quickly gathered Orion’s bone and Kreacher’s ear from the chest of drawers, went to the bed and snatched his notes from the nightstand. He’d read them through enough times to have them memorized, but he’d be damned if he was going to muck this up over something foolish like fumbling the exact wording of the incantations. 

With everything in hand, he crossed back to the cauldron. He barely dared believe that Sirius would be in the room with him in a matter of minutes; at the same time he had hardly allowed himself to think of Sirius as dead in the first place. He wasn’t _dead_ half so much as he was, as the spell described, _absent_.

“Not for long,” Remus murmured gravely to himself, pointing his wand at the flames beneath the cauldron and coaxing them hotter and higher, as one of the old tomes had advised and Harry had corroborated. Remus watched the potion as it reached a rolling boil, thick steam pouring from the cauldron, rolling down its walls in white swathes, pooling in a fog around his feet. It reminded him with an uneasy serendipity of the sludge-like fog of the Betwixt.

Before Remus’ eyes the potion changed, boiling and sparking so fiercely now that it glittered dizzyingly. It hurt Remus’ eyes to look at it directly, like sunlight refracting through the prismed facets of so many diamonds. He looked at his notes and had to blink a few times to clear the after-image of the bright potion from his vision. He squinted down at the crooked rows of his own handwriting, at the second step, following the increasing of the heat. _‘Add remains of the subject to cauldron. Per H, was V’s rudimentary body. Sirius’ ear._’

Following the instructions from his past self, Remus withdrew Sirius’ ear from his pocket. He looked down at it in his palm and felt as though a great fist tightened around his stomach. It was a pathetic, gruesome thing. The Preservation Charms he had placed upon the ear were losing the uphill fight against nature and it had discolored towards an ill and decidedly dead color, mottled greys and greens. The delicate upper crest of cartilage, once such an elegant and perfect arc, had lost its shape slightly, gone a bit misshapen as a result of Remus compulsively tracing its line with a fingertip in his pocket. The rounded basin had gone pale where Remus’ idolatry had unwittingly urged the pooling blood towards the raw edge where it had been severed from Sirius’ head, which had oozed and congealed to a red-violet-black. Repugnant as it was, Remus struggled to scrape together the willpower to release it. It had scarcely left his sight or his grasp since he had first discovered it at the Ministry, the only bit he could reach of the thread that connected him and Sirius. It had become a kind of security blanket, a homing beacon, an anchor. It was foul, he knew, but the idea of reaching into his pocket and not feeling it there sent a needle of panic between his ribs to his heart.

_No,_ he chastised himself, _this is idiocy._ What good was a rotting _ear_ to him when he could have the man, whole and alive, instead? With trembling fingers, Remus carefully removed the earring from Sirius’ lobe. He couldn’t risk casting it into the potion and causing some unforeseen effect, and if the whole thing should fail, he would at least have it as a keepsake. He dropped it into his pocket, hearing it _clink_ softly against the vial of blood. 

Remus glanced at his notes again. Harry had not mentioned the first passage in his description of the scene in the graveyard, but the book had listed it and it had always been in Remus’ nature to be thorough, “Remains of the absent,” he proclaimed, glancing at his notes between every other word. He held his wand in his right hand and Sirius’ ear in the left, above the potion’s coruscations, “Faithfully guarded, fall now so you may rise again,” Remus hesitated for only an instant before letting Sirius’ ear drop, sinking into the potion and vanishing from sight. The potion spat violently once, twice, but did not visibly change.

So far, so good, inasmuch as Remus could tell. He checked his notes yet again, and nodded to himself as he tapped Orion’s ulna with his wand and restored it to its original size. Again, he raised his wand in his right hand and held the offering, the bone, above the potion in his left, “Bone of the f-father,” he said, cursing himself for the way his voice quavered, “Unknowingly given, you will renew your son!” He released the bone and winced back as the diamonds seemed to shatter and snarl, sparks flying. After a number of tense, breathless seconds, the potion seemed to tremble on the brink of a change before becoming a violent, poisonous-looking blue. Remus released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and checked his notes again.

His heart gave a feeble twinge of guilt in his chest as he reluctantly picked up Kreacher’s ear. To his disgust, it was still warm, a result of whatever mysterious Elf-magic Kreacher had placed upon it to keep it fresh. Fresh indeed, the eerie warmth of it made it seem to be _alive_ in Remus’ hand. It made it that much harder to hold it over the potion’s seething blue depths, as if he were preparing to drop a squirming, innocent animal into the waiting jaws of a snake, “Flesh,” he invoked hoarsely and cleared his throat, “Of the s-servant… willingly given, y-you will… revive your master.” Sending a silent apology to Kreacher for misusing him just as he’d alleged, Remus let go of the unsettlingly warm ear.

No sooner had it made contact with the potion than the color shifted suddenly to a fierce vermilion, the force of the boil seeming to intensify. The bubbles were smaller, a fizzing, frothing foam making abstract shapes upon the bloody surface. Remus felt light-headed as he watched it, trying to catch his breath as the scent of the potion changed. He’d grown nearly immune to the charred ozone smell of Dark Magic, but it redoubled at this, burning the hair in his nose and nudging at his gag reflex. He bit back the sudden need to be sick and breathed through his mouth. Every fiber of him told him to get away from the unnatural black hole that was the cauldron, but he _could_ not, _would_ not give up now. He was so, so very close.

Remus dug in his pocket, calmed slightly by the brush of his fingers against Sirius’ earring before they closed around the small vial. He took it from his pocket and looked at the blood within, so recently parted from Severus’ veins that it had hardly had the chance to begin to coagulate. He popped the cork from the vial, letting it fall to the ground somewhere near his feet. Remus gulped in a deep breath, tasting sour in his throat, lifted his wand and the vial, “Blood of th-the enemy,” he said, voice shorn and low, “F-f-forcibly taken. You will r-resurrect your foe.” With a jerk of his wrist, Remus tilted the vial, emptying its contents into the cauldron.

The liquid within instantly changed again, brightly blazing into white. Remus staggered back from it, half-blinded, and his legs gave out beneath him. He gaped from the floor, feeling spent and tense down to his very molecules, as a riot of stars and plumes of smoke rained from the huge vessel. It was so bright that it made his head throb, his eye sockets feel too tight. He shut his eyes, feeling tremors of magic shake the room, the vulgar odor and taste of Darkness gagging him. It went on for a very long time, and Remus wondered if he’d gotten something wrong despite his caution and rigorous attention to detail. With his eyes closed, for all he knew, the very fabric of the universe might be shredding itself to ribbons, trapping him in some abyss of his own making.

After long minutes, Remus realized that the room had fallen still. At some point he’d curled in on himself on his knees, arms wrapped around the back of his head as if to protect himself from the falling shrapnel bits that must be coming off of the sky. He was relieved for a second by the settling of things around him until the realization tore through him like a jaggedly dull blade; it hadn’t worked. He couldn’t smell Sirius, couldn’t smell anything but the putrid Dark smell. He peeked past his arm just enough to confirm that through the opaque white fumes no sleek, black-haired head was poking out of the cauldron. 

A dreadful sound escaped him, something too animal and primitive to be called a sob. He pressed his face so hard into the crook of his elbow that it hurt, squeezing himself tight as if it would keep him from falling apart. The room, the house, the _world_ suddenly seemed terribly vast in light of how incontrovertibly _alone_ he was. He might have been the only living thing left in the whole vastness of creation, so abandoned and untethered did he feel. 

It had _failed._ After all of that, after sin upon sin, after flaying his soul bare, he was left with less than ever. For now he had lost not only the man he loved, but so very much of _himself_ , carved away in horrible irretrievable chunks. He was so Dark that Connery had smelled it on him, so Dark that Grimmauld Place had accepted him and started to feel as though it were _his._ Were his _home._ But a creature as low as him could know no true home.

Perhaps he’d done everything right, but had not been fast enough. Perhaps Sirius had finally found his way to the Afterlife, had moved beyond Remus’ earthly reach. Or perhaps Sirius had seen what had become of him and turned away from him, repulsed enough to prefer oblivion. Remus never would have thought anything could feel this much worse than the full moon. Another wracking sob shuddered through him. Could a thing like him even dream? He had not dreamt the previous night, after his shameful betrayal of Kreacher. Perhaps he had moved too far from humanity for such things as dreams. 

And Merlin, he was selfish, but that _hurt_. Without at least the escape of dreaming, how could he ever see Sirius again? Even if dreams were only apparitions cooked up by his subconscious and not the actual spiritual visitations he had hoped them to be, he would still take them over this tormented _aloneness._

How long, he wondered bleakly, would he have to lay here before he starved? He remembered reading somewhere that it was actually dehydration that would kill someone first. It should have troubled him, perhaps, how little difference it made to him.

“Moony?” every muscle in Remus’ body twanged in shock, as if electrocuted, at the voice that cut through his desolately spiraling thoughts. Remus had sat up with a violent jolt. He blinked rapidly, his vision blurred by tears he’d hardly realized he was shedding, heart racing unevenly as he stared up at the silhouette emerging from the dissipating vapors, “Is that you?” it asked.

Though his arm shook furiously, Remus managed to slash his wand through the air, sweeping the white fog aside. Sirius blinked down at him. Remus blinked up at Sirius. Sirius jerked forward slightly, halting and immediately looking down, perfect brow furrowing at the potion that came up to his navel. One elegant hand touched the rim of the cauldron gingerly, as if ascertaining that it was real. And then Sirius’ eyes — that glorious fathomless grey, fluid as mercury, silver as sunlight trying to shine through stormclouds, more beautiful by half than Tonks’ similar eyes or than _anything_ Remus had ever beheld — locked onto Remus’ once more and his heart stuttered in his chest. There was confusion there, yes, plenty of it, and recognition, and a hint of the kind of cataclysmic rage that Remus had always known Sirius was capable of but had seldom seen unleashed. 

“Remus,” Sirius said, his beautiful, beloved voice level and dangerously low, “What _the fuck_ is going on?”

***

Remus looked like hell. His greying hair was askew and obviously unwashed, his skin ashen beneath feverish blotches of red. His jaw was stained on one side with a yellowish bruise, his cheeks were wet with tears, and he hadn’t wiped his drippy left nostril. He was sprawled on the floor awkwardly and he was gawping up at Sirius as if he had three heads. The astonishment on his face only fueled the anger simmering in Sirius’ gut.

“ _Sirius,_ ” Remus uttered reverently, his voice barely breaking a whisper.

Something about Remus’ tone sent a shiver of trepidation through Sirius, setting his anger off kilter, “Remus, what _the fuck_ is going on?” he demanded again, voice shaking, “Why am I in a _bloody cauldron?_ ”

Remus swore to himself and waved his wand, _Vanishing_ the cauldron suddenly so that Sirius was dropped rather clumsily to the floor, “Sorry!” he squeaked at once, at Sirius’ side in an instant, eyes scanning him frantically as if he might be hurt from the short fall.

“Merlin, I’m not made of glass!” he snarled, recoiling from Remus and shooting to his feet. No sooner was he standing than the world seemed to tilt on its axis and he staggered. Remus’ hands caught his shoulders and prevented him from falling. Despite himself, he leaned on the other man’s steadying support. He glared into Remus’ eyes and watched something tender shift in the familiar amber depths. Remus had always been so good at control, so good at keeping his emotions checked and concealed, but love and anguish and fear warred openly on his face. Something huge was going on and he wasn’t telling Sirius what the hell it was, “Moony,” he said, furious at being kept in the dark, “Tell me what’s happened.”

“Y-you really don’t remember?” Remus said, his grip on Sirius’ shoulders tightening, his eyes searching Sirius’ face almost greedily.

Sirius tried to think back to the last thing he remembered and had to shut his eyes against the kaleidoscopic, senseless onslaught. He could have _sworn_ he had just been in the Forbidden Forest, but surely he was wrong. He had been over at Prongs’, and Lily’s water had finally broken! But no, it hadn’t yet. Today he’d been in his and Remus’ flat, and Reggie’s death had been announced in the _Prophet._ Sirius’ memories all seemed too near, and at the same time too foggy. He would have bet money that just that morning he had taken the blame for the sugar bowl Reg had broken and been punished by his father in the study. But his hands clutching the edge of his father’s desk had been _so small_ and that had been years ago, hadn’t it? Before he’d even received his Hogwarts letter! It seemed as though he had only just watched helplessly as Peter scuttled into the gutter, leaving death and devastation in his wake. He’d been dueling Bellatrix recently, after watching Benjy Fenwick blown to bits in an alley, and in the mysterious bowels of the Ministry, and in the manicured garden behind Uncle Pollux’s summer villa. And before that, or perhaps after, he had woken up in the Gryffindor dorm with Remus wrapped around him, morning-soft and sleep-warm, so safe it could only have been a dream.

“Sirius,” Remus’ voice was saying his name, and he sounded desperately worried. Sirius opened his eyes, “Sirius, are you alright?” He had sagged against Remus under the weight of his madness, and their faces were very close together.

“Remus,” he said, “I think I’ve really lost my mind this time,” Remus’ breath caught, “I don’t… I’ve no idea _when_ I am.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Remus muttered, and Sirius nearly smiled at it despite himself. He’d always relished the sound of Remus swearing. He let Remus guide him to sit on the foot of a bed, and he recognized the tangle of scarlet bedclothes.

Sirius went rigid, “ _Grimmauld Place_ ,” he tried to pull away, but Remus held him still, “Why are we here?” Sirius asked before a floating bit of memory slotted into place, “The Order! We’re… I’m…”

“Yes, the Order’s using Grimmauld Place as its headquarters,” Remus confirmed, “It’s 1996.”

“1996,” Sirius repeated, but honestly the number alone did little to contextualize anything in his out of joint thoughts.

“Yes, and I… I don’t think you’re mad,” Remus said haltingly, “You’ve been through… something, and I reckon, well, I hope, it’s only left you… confused.”

“Remus,” Sirius said, voice hardening impatiently, “I swear to Merlin, if you don’t cut the shit and tell me what’s going on—” Sirius moved to withdraw his wand threateningly, and noticed, or rather finally acknowledged, that he was naked as the day he’d been born.

“Shit, one moment,” Remus said and a second later was handing Sirius his crumpled blue dressing gown. He did not bother to take it. He was staring down at his body as if he’d never seen it before in his life. And in fact, he _hadn’t_. Not as it was presently. 

He was _perfect_. That wasn’t vanity talking, either, he was as spotless as a slate wiped clean. The scar on his left knee from a Bludger in fourth year was gone, as well as the various scars he’d acquired during the first war, from duels and hand-to-hand combat. The four slashes from Moony’s claws, earned the first full moon they had spent together after the snafu with Snape, were nowhere to be seen. The identifying tattoos of Azkaban were gone. With trembling fingers, Sirius touched his chest and his nape, where he should have felt the slightly raised edges of the indelible tattoos but the skin was untouched. He touched his ribs, not protruding as they had been now for years but concealed under a healthy layer of toned muscle and fat. Sirius lifted his attention to Remus’ face again, finding the other man’s eyes politely averted and a flush upon his cheekbones, “Remus,” he said again, and Remus’ eyes met his, “I’m beginning to think either I’ve died and gone to some heaven that looks like Walburga’s house for some daft reason, or I’ve had some sort of absolutely mental dream, and if you know which it is and you don’t _fucking_ tell me straight away, by Hecate’s tits, I will never forgive you.”

Remus’ adam’s apple bobbed and he nodded, clearing his throat before saying in a cautious tone, “You died, Sirius. But this isn’t heaven.”

Despite himself, Sirius snorted, “I always had a feeling about this place, but I didn’t think it was literal _hell_ ,” he said. It honestly was the explanation that made the most sense.

“No,” Remus amended, “Pads, you’re _alive_. This is the real Grimmauld Place, I promise you.”

Sirius scowled at him, fists clenching as he spat, “You’ve just bloody said I was _dead_ , Remus, _which is it?!_ ”

“You _were_ dead,” Remus said carefully, avoiding Sirius’ eyes, “...or at any rate, gone… I… I’ve brought you back.”

Sirius’ jaw dropped slightly and then a shrill shrieking noise rent the tension of the room. He nearly fell to the ground so violently had he jumped at the sound, but Remus stood, rushing across the room to a large hourglass and tapping it with his wand and ending the sound, before thinking better of it and just _Vanishing_ the whole thing. Sirius shivered as he watched Remus run a hand nervously through his hair and thought better of his nakedness, reaching for the dressing gown and covering himself after all, “It’s not possible,” he said, sounding stubborn even to his own ears, “Bringing people back to life.”

“Most of the time that’s true,” Remus conceded, meeting his eyes but not daring to approach the bed again, “There are a few exceptions,” Sirius lifted an eyebrow, “The Veil, Sirius,” Sirius’ blood ran cold, the memory of one of those duels with Bellatrix clicking into place, “I don’t know if you remember, but you fell through the Veil of Death in the Department of Mysteries.”

“I…” Sirius’ voice failed him and he nodded, staring at his hands. His head shot up as a few bits of memory slid back into linear order, “Harry!? Is he—”

“He’s quite alright,” Remus assured him, “Though I imagine he’s going to be rather furious with me.”

“Why would he—?” Sirius groaned and scraped his hair back from his face, “Please, just stop being coy, Moony, and tell me it all.”

“Alright, alright,” he took a breath through his nose and went on, “I don’t know what it was like for you, the Veil, but I reckon it’s why you’re confused,” Remus said, “You’ve spent a couple of weeks in… in limbo. Necromancers used to call it the Betwixt, and when I was there I kept being tugged between reliving my own memories. If it was like that for you for, oh… nearly twenty days, of course, you’d be a bit mixed up.”

Sirius was light-headed, trying to find the string of logic that tangled through Remus’ words. Remus remained quiet, letting Sirius absorb what he’d said, “You were there, too?” he asked after a moment, “Did you die?”

Remus shook his head, smiling grimly, “No, but I had to see if you were there to know if I could bring you back here. There was a ritual, another potion.”

Somehow the word ‘ritual’ lodged in Sirius’ mind and his anger flared up again in realization, “ _Necromancy_ , Moony? You can’t be serious!” Remus shifted his weight uneasily and Sirius’ rage mounted, “That’s Dark — _really bloody Dark —_ Magic!” Sirius’ eyes swept over the room, seeking a clue, “What did — fuck, _who_ did you _sacrifice?!_ ”

Remus’ hands flew up defensively, “N-nobody! I would never…” he winced at his own words and Sirius stood up, even if he did have to lean heavily on the bedpost for support.

“I fucking grew up _here_ , Remus!” Sirius shouted, “I know full well that Necromancy comes at a steep fucking price so you fucking tell me _who_ ,” his voice cracked, “Paid it on my behalf. _Tell me._ ”

“No one gave their life,” Remus said in a rush.

“I want to believe you,” Sirius said, shaking his head, “Tell me.”

“I-I used the same potion that Wormtail used to bring back Voldemort,” Remus said flatly, as if the words weren’t the equivalent of a knife in the heart. Sirius leaned harder on the bedpost, knees turning to jelly, “I don’t know if Harry ever described it to you,” Sirius nodded but Remus was staring at some point behind him and continued, in that same flat expressionless tone, “But it requires three sacrificial elements. Th-the bone of the father, that’s pretty straightforward,” he listed off, and Sirius shut his eyes, trying to block out the image of Remus digging up graves, “The… blood of the enemy, that… that wound up coming from Severus,” Sirius opened his eyes again, stared at Remus barely seeing him, “And the flesh of the… servant. That was, I…” Remus squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard before forcing out the words, “Kreacher… Kreacher’s ear.”

Sirius sat heavily on the bed again, the horrifying last words sparking a memory of something. A memory of pain, of an accident, of a rushed Healing Charm. His hand flew to his right ear, not sure whether he was surprised or not to find it still attached to his head. One fingertip lingered on the earlobe, unpierced for the first time in over a decade. He shut his eyes for a second, the reality of the situation sinking sickly into his mind. When he opened them again, he met an expectant, amber gaze. 

The man before him certainly _looked_ like Remus Lupin, was wearing threadbare corduroys and a stretched out jumper that could only have come from Remus Lupin’s closet. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth the same way Remus Lupin had a lifetime ago as the Sorting Hat deliberated on his head. But for all the striking resemblance, surely he could not be Remus.

“Padfoot?” the man inquired, and Sirius realized he was shaking his head.

“Remus would never cut off a House-Elf’s fucking _ear_ ,” Sirius said, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“H-he actually did the c-cutting,” he corrected, voice buckling just as Remus’ would under scrutiny, “I…” he let out a breath in a whoosh, hugging himself, “I bloody _hate_ myself for it, alright? And if you hate me for it too, I don’t blame you. But I…” amber eyes met Sirius’, fierce and bright with tears, “I _had_ to do it, Pads, I couldn’t…” he bit back a sob, “I couldn’t be here without you.”

Anger and disbelief warred within Sirius, nearly swamping the love that swelled in him. It really was Remus, even if it was a Remus he could hardly reconcile. There was so much he wanted to say, but his head was too full. He felt dreadfully weary all of a sudden, and his skin crawled with the Darkness and the memories that grew in the walls here like a fungus. He didn’t know if he hated Remus, and he didn’t know if he could forgive him, but he _needed_ him not to cry. That need for Remus to be okay was so fundamental to his very existence, even if he did hate him, he imagined that need would persist. So he redirected the conversation, “Can we go somewhere?” he asked, and his voice sounded old.

Remus stilled, “What?”

“Can we go, like, literally _anywhere_ that isn’t here?” Sirius said, “I’ve miraculously returned from the dead, I’d rather not spend my life in hell.”

Remus blinked at him once, and twice, appearing rooted to the spot. And then he shook himself, visibly snapping out of it, “Y-yeah! Yeah, of course! W-we can go to… to my parents’ place, would that be better?” he was a blur of activity, opening the chest of drawers and sending clothes for Sirius levitating to the bed with erratic speed.

“Anything shy of Azkaban would be better, Moons,” Sirius said, fumbling his way into his clothes. Remus smiled tightly at him and offered him his arm. After a few steps, Sirius discovered that he had regained his equilibrium and command of his limbs well enough to have walked on his own. He didn’t bother pointing this out to Remus. Truth be told, though he suspected it made him weak, he was happy to have Remus to lean on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yell at me _about Sirius_ in the comments!


	7. Coming Clean

_8 July, 1996_

Remus rolled over in his narrow childhood bed. It was odd being back in the cottage, the one he had not been allowing himself to think of as home. Remus watched the window, the very one that he knew Fenrir Greyback had climbed through a lifetime ago, though he remembered the event itself in a dim blur of fright, as anyone would an old nightmare from childhood. He watched the curtains sway, the breeze carrying the heady night perfume of the Welsh fields, night-blooming campions, moonpennies, and musk mallow, and the salt of the distant sea. Remus waited. As a boy he’d stared at that open window, at the sill Mam had sanded and repainted by hand so that the claw-marks might never have been there, and waited for another monster to come. The full moons would come and the monster with it, from within himself, but he was always _waiting_ , waiting in an ecstasy of fear, and loathing, and hope, for some proof that he wasn’t the only monster. 

Nothing stirred outside save for the fragrant breeze and the odd hare or grouse. Remus wondered if they stayed away, if they knew that monsters were the residents of the old cottage. He rolled over again, turning his back to the window, and reached for his wand and cast a wordless _tempus_ charm. It was just past three in the morning, but he couldn’t possibly sleep.

He and Sirius had arrived at the cottage several hours earlier, their noses wrinkling upon entrance at the smell of spoiled food. Remus had quickly and shame-facedly _Vanished_ the (now largely discolored and fuzzy) spread of food from Molly Weasley, which he had left on the table when first he had gone to Grimmauld Place. He had apologized to Sirius for it, and Sirius had merely studied him for a moment before saying in an oblique tone, “It’s not like you to waste food, Moony.”

Remus hadn’t known how to respond to that, and had just smiled tensely. It was true, it was unlike him. Apparently loss drove him to do all kinds of uncharacteristic things. 

He had boiled water to make tea, reminded viscerally of the dream he’d had, the relived memory of Sirius burning his kettle which had given way to… something else. Before the kettle had had a chance to whistle, though, Sirius had politely asked if he might be excused, “Resurrection leaves a body rather knackered,” he had said. Remus couldn’t remember if he’d laughed at that, or if he’d been too bowled over by the beauty of Sirius to do much more than stare.

For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to him that giving Sirius a new body would include such a, well, _new_ body. He didn’t look _different_ , per se, he was unmistakably Sirius Black, but a Sirius Black without the wear and tear of a few merciless decades etched onto his skin. He was like a mint condition Sirius, and it was nearly more than Remus could handle. He’d thought Sirius had been perfect before, but now there was something to his pristine beauty that made the hair on Remus’ nape bristle. 

It had been almost an hour since the last time Remus had gotten up to make sure Sirius hadn’t disappeared and he decided that was quite long enough. He grabbed his wand and crept across the hall to the larger bedroom that had once been his parents’ room. He stood in the doorway, which Sirius had closed it originally, but Remus had left it ajar and that was how he found it now, and his breath again caught in his throat. The moon wouldn’t be full for another six days but it was a very clear night and the silvery light of the moon and stars poured in the window to pool around Sirius. The light was doing something to his skin that gave new meaning to the word ‘magic’.

He was lying on his back, one arm casually curved over his head on the pillow, the opposite hand resting on the blanket that was bunched around his hips. He’d discarded his shirt since the last time Remus had checked on him. It was a warm night and Sirius had no wand with which to cast a Cooling Charm on the bedding. Remus’ mouth went dry at the sight of him. In that pale light, Sirius had the look of some ancient sculpture, the flawless surface of his skin and the exquisite musculature beneath seemed to have been freed from marble by some artist’s great devotion. Remus’ hands ached to touch him, but he couldn’t shake the sense that if he did, Sirius might go up in smoke. He leaned against the doorframe and watched, enraptured, as Sirius’ chest rose and fell.

“Moony,” Sirius’ voice was quiet but it hit Remus like a bolt of lightning so that he actually staggered back a step. 

“Hm?” Remus said, his tongue feeling too thick and useless to wield words. This was what he had hoped for, had debased himself for, and yet still he couldn’t seem to wrap his addled thoughts around the fact that the beautiful man before him was no illusion, but truly _Sirius_ , able to converse with him without vanishing like a dream.

“When did you become such a shameless voyeur?” Sirius’ voice didn’t quite carry the humor the quip warranted, as he turned his face towards the door, cheek nestling against his bicep. When his eyes opened, they were so perfectly alert that Remus doubted he’d been asleep at all. 

Remus shrugged. “Permit me my amazement, won’t you?” he said. He didn’t know if it sounded wry, or rather more like a plea, “It’s not every day your…” they’d never quite gotten the hang of labels, “Anyone comes back from the dead.”

Sirius frowned. He looked away from Remus and his hand curled into a fist in the bunched sheets, “That’s more your achievement than mine, Remus. It wasn’t my bloody idea.”

Remus steeled himself with a deep breath and then strode into the room, right up to the bed and seated himself on its edge. Avoiding confrontations had only ever made things uglier with Sirius, better to simply face the music. Sirius did not look at him, but continued to stare determinedly at the ceiling. Remus sighed, “You’re angry with me?”

Sirius rolled his eyes and then closed them, crossed his arms over his bare chest, “Not all at you, Moony, I’m just _angry_. I’ve been lying here for hours trying to sort out the bits and bobs in my fucking head, and I reckon I should be grateful, should be thanking you that I’m here, but…” his brow tightened and his voice came out thin, “I’m not worth it.”

“That’s just the thing, Pads,” Remus said, turning on the bed to face him fully. Of this at least he was sure, “You _are_ worth it to me, worth all of it, even the heinous bits,” Sirius opened his eyes and they scanned Remus’ face shrewdly, “I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t belittle that.”

“I’m not _belitting_ anything,” Sirius said a little hotly, sitting up, “Maybe you’re jaded to it, but I’m not. Nothing’s _worth it_ , Remus, fucking _Blood Magic_?” He scraped one hand through his hair, “It’s a bloody crime against nature!”

The truth of Sirius’ words threatened to make Remus crumble in on himself. He’d known this had been a possibility, that Sirius might want nothing to do with him after what he’d done, “I’m not too jaded to see that, I… I agree with you,” he admitted.

“Remus…” Sirius shook his head, “How could you do it? You, you’ve,” he gestured towards Remus with his hands, “You’ve always been so bloody _kind_ , and done the right thing, and—”

“Stop it,” Remus interrupted, his head reeling. He _couldn’t_ , he simply couldn’t bear to hear Sirius speak of him so, “You always thought I was better than I was,” he deflected, “I’ve never been a saint, Sirius.”

“Nor have I ever called you one,” Sirius sat up straighter, “But you’ve always been a _good person_ , and I _know_ because I always wished I could be more _like you,_ always bloody _loved_ you for it!” Remus heart twinged painfully at that, at the past tense use of the word, “But the Remus I knew wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ —”

“Oh, shut it,” Remus cut in. It was torture to hear why Sirius was rejecting him and to agree with him, “You always projected—”

“ _No_! You wouldn’t have chopped off a House-Elf’s bloody _ear!_ ” Sirius’ voice had gone sharp and it threatened to cut Remus. It was true, of course, wasn’t it? He’d had the same argument with himself enough times to know it. Every moment since he’d seen the red pour of Kreacher’s blood and felt the grotesque warmth of the Elf’s ear in his hand, he had felt the sick twist of it in gut, the knowledge of a change, an _infection_ as incurable as Greyback’s bite. But the promise of Sirius, before him and alive and finally getting a real chance at life… that had been more important than his moral compunctions, than the wholeness of his own self, and it still was.

“I would have done for you, you idiot,” Remus countered, undeterred by the mad tremor of his voice, “I did it for you just like I would have done _anything_ for you.”

“Merlin, that is such _bollocks!_ ” Sirius nearly shouted, “You didn’t do this _for me,_ you did it because you’re terrified of being _alone_!”

The words were barbed, intended to cut, but they hardly touched Remus. He knew it for the oversimplification that it was. Tonks’ face flashed through his mind, and Kurt Connery’s, the various other friends and lovers that had come and gone between the first war and Sirius’ escape from Azkaban, “I wouldn’t be alone,” he said, confident in its truth and also its complete lack of solace, “But it’s the being _without you_ that I couldn’t bear,” Sirius’ scowl softened only infinitesimally, “Not only that, Pads, but it really was _for you_. You’re bloody brilliant, you always have been, but you never got a bloody _chance_ ,” he leaned closer, impassioned, “It’s not _right_ , Padfoot, first your family, then war, and prison, and _war_ , and bloody Dumbledore— _you’ve been through enough_ and I… I couldn’t stand that being _all you got_!”

The anger on Sirius’ face was replaced by a fathomless ache, the world-weariness of it looking out of place on his perfect, nearly ageless face. His fingers whispered against Remus’ cheek and Remus realized how the distance between them in the bed had shrunk, “You’ve been through enough, too, though, Moony, without putting your soul through…” his words petered off and he shook his head, eyes soulful as they searched Remus’, “You had to know that I’d never have asked this of you.”

Remus’ smile was wry, but his words were all raw honesty, “You never had to _ask_ me for anything, did you, Pads?” Recognition flickered in Sirius’ eyes, the innumerable times it had been true, as friends, as classmates, as lovers, as fellow soldiers, that Remus had provided what he needed before he’d even had the words to ask.

“Remus,” Sirius’ voice was barely above a breath. Before he could break his streak by asking, Remus closed the space between them, his lips pressing against Sirius’. Without hesitation, Sirius’ lips yielded to Remus and though he might have seemed different in a hundred ways, his kiss was the same as it had ever been. It was like whiplash after the hollowing slice of rejection but it filled Remus till he was brimming with sweetness. The slide of soft, full lips and the maddening curl of Sirius’ tongue, the vibration of his small moan pouring into Remus’ veins like fire, it was as sweet and sweeter than his mind could have ever remembered or imagined. When Sirius’ hands cupped Remus’ jaw, the skin was oddly smooth and uncalloused against his face but the way the thumbs brushed his cheekbones was all Sirius.

And suddenly the small distance between their bodies seemed much too great. After all the years they had spent apart, and most of all, after being divided by the chasm that separates life from death, a scant few centimeters surely should have felt like no distance at all. But with a great surge of need, Remus felt that he couldn’t possibly get as close to Sirius as he needed to be, and from the way Sirius’ fingertips dug in, he felt the same pull. Remus pressed nearer, starving for Sirius as he never before had been. Even when they had first come back together after Azkaban, it had not been like this. That had been careful and cautious, unconfident and stilted, a world apart from this raw, and mutually consuming, need. One of Remus’ hands pulled Sirius closer by the nape, his thumb straying to press, disbelieving, to the quickening flutter of Sirius’ pulse in his throat. The other hand curved to the narrow corner of his hip for a moment before sliding up the perfection of his skin to his chest, his palm reverently drinking in the miraculous thump of Sirius’ heart, each beat unspooling in his head in an accelerating mantra of _alive, alive, alive alive alive._

Remus did not know if he pushed Sirius back against the pillows, or if Sirius had fallen back and tugged him along, the need between them blurred the lines so that it was impossible to say whose tongue chased whose. This, the part where their souls sought oneness, through their bodies and in spite of their bodies, had always been as innate as the rhythm of their own breath. It was the most familiar and inevitable thing in the world for Remus to cover Sirius’ body, to kiss him deeper and deeper still as he straddled his hips. Sirius smiled into the kiss and Remus could taste in its curve the manic desire that pressed through them both, as spicy and sweet and _real_ as if it were the echo of something Sirius had eaten. 

It tasted _divine_ and Remus was _so hungry_ , he unreservedly gorged himself on the deliciousness of Sirius’ mouth until Sirius’ hands grew bolder, impatiently pushing at the t-shirt and pants Remus had tried to sleep in. When Remus’ hand twisted a little tighter in his hair, Sirius’ teeth scraped Remus’ lower lip and his hips arched off the bed. Even through the tangle of blankets, Remus couldn’t miss the hard line of Sirius’ cock nudging against his, spitting sparks up his spine. He reluctantly lifted his body off of Sirius’ just long enough to push the blankets out of the way. When their bodies slotted back together, he hissed at the hard, hot nearness of Sirius’ cock, separated from his by only their respective pants. Sirius felt it, too, moaning into their kiss and grinding his hips up against Remus’ insistently.

Time ceased to hold any meaning and all that existed was each other, rubbing their bodies together with the same sense of gravity and need that had compelled them to do so as teenagers. Remus felt dizzy with the smell of Sirius’ heated flesh and blood, the bewitching clove-pine-almond smell of him combining with the smell of wildflowers and moonlight that was the smell of Remus’ childhood. It was the smell of _home_ and of _life_ and it wrapped around Remus like fae promise — if it was a trick, if it cost _everything_ , then so be it. 

Remus tore his lips from Sirius’, his chin and upper lip burning sweetly from the rasp of their stubble, and the sight he gazed down upon was worth it indeed, worth _everything_ , worth his life, worth his magic, worth his soul. Sirius’ eyes were closed, his wet red mouth yearning up towards Remus, open and panting little breaths that sounded to Remus like _alivealivealive._ His cheeks were bright with the flush of blood, not congealing and dark, but lively and hot and _alivealivealive._ He peered at Remus through the dark fan of his eyelashes, and his gaze was electric, cracking like lightning or the snap of a charm. Remus’ lips were on him again, trailing open-mouthed kisses as he mapped the line of his jaw. Sirius made a high, hungry keen that threatened to undo Remus as he sucked the hollow of Sirius’ throat, laved his tongue along the elegant curve of his collarbone, sucked along the fluttering artery to his ear.

“ _Moony_ ,” Sirius sighed his name like a prayer as Remus sucked and nibbled, his head spinning at trying to reconcile this untouched ear with the one he’d pierced at fifteen, the one that had rotted in his pocket for weeks. It didn’t seem possible and it should have repulsed him, but it made him fizz with relief and a not-so-familiar feeling of _power_. It wasn’t a _miracle_ that Sirius was here beneath him with living blood pumping through his living veins, _it was because of Remus._

“Moony, c’mon,” Sirius whined, “I - didn’t come back from the dead just for - for a bit of foreplay.”

It surprised a full laugh out of Remus and he lifted himself up a little to regard Sirius again. He looked splendidly debauched, the perfect glossy mane of his hair askew across the pillow, sticking and curling in the dewy sweat at his temples, his eyes lidded, his lips shining and bitten, curling around a wicked grin, “Ungrateful git,” Remus slid his hand down between them, squeezing around the bulge in Sirius’ pants tight, feeling the stickiness of pre-cum in his palm as Sirius’ mouth fell open at the touch, “ _Just a bit of foreplay_?”

“Remus, please,” Sirius gasped and Remus nearly came right there, always had been fucking weak for the sound of Sirius begging for him, the only kind of _asking_ he’d ever done and Remus had never been able to refuse him, “I’ll be so fucking grateful, and-and thankful, and _fuck_ , just don’t make me wait any longer.”

There were times in the past that Remus had dragged out the wait, had made Sirius plead and made him writhe, and they had both bloody loved it. But not tonight. He’d lost Sirius, nearly for good, and suddenly he realized he couldn’t stand waiting a moment longer himself. He scrambled to kick away his pants, to strip Sirius of his. The sight of Sirius’ cock springing free drew a groan from him and he heard Sirius snicker, but a moment later it was Sirius’ turn to groan, as Remus summoned lubrication with the well-practiced wandless spell (his wand was somewhere on the ground by the bed but he couldn’t afford to waste a second) and nudged at Sirius’ arse. 

He could have been perfectly content just fingering Sirius’ arse. He could have spent all night relishing the tight, soft, hotness of Sirius’ body and what he could make it do with just a couple of fingers, watching him twist and moan like some celestial force of nature, all pale, perfect skin and heat. But when Sirius’ voice came high and reedy, rough at the edges with need, begging, “Remus, I need you to fuck me, please, _please,_ Merlin, it’s killing me,” he could deny neither of them a moment longer.

“It’s not killing you, you _prat_ ,” He corrected lightly, surprised that the word ‘kill’ alone wasn’t like a dagger in his heart, but rather that it renewed that same feeling of _power_ within him. He had _un-killed_ Sirius and if he’d wanted to make him wait to be fucked all night, he had that power, too, and best of all, he held the power to give Sirius what he so desperately needed. He coated his cock and pressed the head against Sirius’ entrance, “Think you of all people might know better.”

Sirius’ only answer was an inarticulate moan of pleasure as Remus pressed into him, and then there was no room for words. Their mouths were too busy trading kissed of primal and spiritual need, and when their rhythm grew too furious to kiss, they merely traded breath. Remus filled his lungs with Sirius’ gasps, each one of them a glory he felt blessed to consume. They moved together like fire and water becoming steam, the boundaries of their bodies blurring and tangling in the sheer purity of unnamed pleasure. It didn’t last very long, but it was eternal. Sirius came first, without either of them so much as touching his cock, spilling across his stomach and chest, head thrown back against the pillows so that the long line of his neck was the last thing Remus saw before his eyes shuttered against the force of his own orgasm. The first blinding pulse of it emptied inside Sirius, but it was too much sensation and he felt like he might be blown apart, pulling out and gripping his cock in his hand. He peeked one eye open, watching as Sirius stared up at him enthralled as Remus’ cum mingled with his on his skin. 

Remus’ nose stung with the now well-known ozone smell of Dark Magic, and he worried only idly whether the smell had grown stronger as a result of their cum mixing on Sirius’ skin. But when he nuzzled against the damp of Sirius’ neck, the other smell was there, the older, more familiar _Sirius_ smell of him, clove and almond and dark pines. He could have sank into the sweet relief of that smell forever, stronger now on the sweat of love-making, but then Sirius was pulling him up into a kiss and they were sliding together like destiny, heedless of the cooling semen that painted their bodies together or the watery light of the coming dawn.

Remus must have fallen asleep, because he woke up. He drowsily reached to pull the blanket over him, but then realized that the chill he felt had nothing to do with the warm breeze filtering from the open window. It was the teeth-clenching cold of Dark Magic nearby, and he sat up with a start. He looked around, blinking in the morning sunlight, his eyes quickly finding Sirius on the floor. He sat cross-legged near Remus’ side of the bed, without a stitch on. It should have been comforting to see him there and perhaps it may have been, if he hadn’t had Remus’ wand in his hand.

Sharing one’s wand never felt _good._ It always felt a bit like watching someone use one’s fragile family heirloom of as they practiced juggling. But this was different. Remus had allowed Sirius to use his wand a few dozen times over the years, to pull off a prank or two at school, to boil tea, to dry them off when they’d come in from the rain, for basic Healing, for lube when it was the only wand within reach. It would have been romantic if he’d grown comfortable with sharing it, had trusted Sirius with it as though he were an extension of himself, but in truth he had grown marginally okay with it at best. But right now, it felt as though it was in the hands of a stranger, and they meant to use it to determine what he looked like inside-out.

“Don’t fret, Moony,” Sirius said and Remus shivered. Sirius lifted his head and met Remus’ gaze and _Merlin_ , it was wrong, his eyes were too tired to be in a face so immaculate and young, “I can’t do much with it anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Remus asked, trying to keep his tone light despite the wolf growling in the back of his head and longing to snatch the wand back.

“My magic’s changed,” Sirius said desolately.

“Well, it’s the wrong wand for you,” Remus offered.

Sirius shook his head, “No, I’ve used your wand before, Remus, it never felt like this.”

“How does it feel?” Remus breathed.

Sirius gave a small grimace “Watch,” he said. He lifted Remus’ wand and said clearly, “ _Lumos_.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop by a few degrees and the hair on Remus’ arms stood up. The faintest whiff of the ozone smell seemed to hover and in Sirius’ hand the wand trembled, though it might have been his hand trembling, Remus couldn’t say. There was a delay of a couple seconds and then the wand-tip blazed with light, a golden-purple light like the dying rays of the winter sun, brighter by half than a normal white _lumos_ light. It was a relief when Sirius said in that same clear tone, “ _Nox._ ” and the light flickered for a second and then went out.

Remus blinked a few times, trying to erase the after-image of the light from his eyes, trying to figure out how to say what he’d felt even as the feeling of it seemed to be crawling up the walls of his mind, “It’s different,” he conceded after a moment, “It feels…” Sirius watched his face eagerly as if he’d have a reason for it, might put his mind at ease. He did not, could not, “It feels like Creature Magic,” Sirius frowned and looked again at the wand in his hand, “Like House-Elf magic a little, or the raw magic I’ve seen from Werewolves, Vampires…” he frowned, “I’ve no explanation, but…”

Sirius handed the wand back to him and Remus forced himself to take it calmly, despite his instinct to grab it and hold it close. It cringed in his hand before relaxing to his touch. Remus looked at it, but it looked precisely as it always had. Sirius sighed and Remus looked back at him, finding him scrubbing his hands over his face, “We’ll get you your own wand, it… that’ll be better,” he said, aiming to soothe, but Sirius didn’t so much as shrug. Every line of his flawless body looked weary, “Did you get any sleep?” Remus asked, remembering that Sirius had said before that he’d lain awake for hours, and must have been just pretending at sleeping all the times he’d looked in on him.

Sirius shook his head without lifting it from his hands, and gave a mirthless bark of a laugh, “I can’t.”

Remus was no stranger to insomnia and nightmares, familiar with long excruciating nights alone with his demons, “I think I’ve got some Dreamless Sleep somewhere, if you want.”

Sirius sucked in a deep breath and sat up to meet Remus’ eyes, flipping his hair back from his face, “Thank you, Moons, but no. I think… I _can’t_ sleep. Like, I’m incapable.”

Remus knew Sirius fancied speaking in hyperbole, but could tell from his tone that he meant this quite literally, “But, surely…” he said, even though he had no rebuttal, no explanation to follow. Everything about this was unprecedented.

Sirius shuffled nearer to the bed, leaning up to rest his chin on Remus’ knee. He gazed up at him, his beautiful face bearing an expression so tormented by uncertainty that Remus’ throat tightened. When Sirius lifted a hand to cup his cheek, he leaned into the touch, “Moony,” Sirius said, voice low and fraught, “If it weren’t for loving you so bloody much, I’d be convinced I’m not myself at all anymore,” ice slid down Remus’ spine and Sirius seemed to see it in his face, “I _am_ me, though, I think. I… I remember and all, I just…” he pressed his face against Remus’ thigh and drew in a shaking breath. Remus rested a comforting hand on his head, fingers tangling in the dark hair he had always loved the feel of, and Sirius whispered, nearly too softly to be heard, “I’m worried I’m not quite alive.”

Remus’ heart was in his throat and he slid off the bed, tugging Sirius into his arms, horror and love and a fierce need to protect this man threatening to spill out of him, “Sirius,” he murmured, as Sirius tucked his face against his neck, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you no matter what, alive or undead or whatever-the-fuck,” he pressed a kiss hard against the top of Sirius’ head, wishing more than anything that he could share with him the certainty he’d experienced in the _alivealivealive_ beat of Sirius’ heart. He promised the most he could offer, “Nothing’s getting between us ever again.”

Sirius’ arms looped around Remus’ ribs and held on tight, but before either of them could say another word, with a _whoosh_ and a hoot, an owl swooped in the open window and landed on the bed beside them. Remus looked up at it, heart sinking as he recognized it as a Hogwarts tawny. The old man always had had detestable timing. Sirius must have been thinking the same thing, having pulled back a little to look at the owl, “Reckon he heard you,” Sirius said bleakly, “Having the _gall_ to make your own plans.”

Remus wanted very much to ignore the owl, but it hooted again and he groaned, disentangling himself from Sirius enough to take the small tidy scroll and small parcel from the owl. He unrolled the scroll.

‘ _Remus,’_ it read in Dumbledore’s familiar looping hand, _‘We have much to discuss. I look forward to seeing you both at one o’clock. I have enclosed a portkey for your convenience. -A.D.’_ He handed the letter to Sirius as he unwrapped the parcel, snorting at finding one of Fawkes’ beautifully shimmering scarlet feathers within. Sirius leaned closer to see and again all but read his mind, “My, he does love his symbolism, doesn’t he.”

“He does,” Remus agreed, getting to his feet a bit stiffly and offering Sirius his hands, “It’s a waste of a phoenix feather, if you ask me, I reckon the portkey charm denatures its magic,” Sirius had stood but did not release Remus’ hands. Remus squeezed them, feeling a prick of terror at what Dumbledore would have to say, at the possibility that he might see fit to separate them. _No,_ he thought, determined, _never again._

  


_9 July, 1996_

“We ought to wash up,” Sirius said, prodding Remus’ belly with one fingertip, pulling a face slightly at the dried cum there. He had feigned the disgust in a feeble attempt at levity, but in truth it didn’t inspire any disgust in him, and on the contrary, he felt a sort of primal satisfaction in it. 

“I don’t think it would do us any favors to turn up at Hogwarts like this, no,” Remus said, following his cue of attempted humor, tugging Sirius to his feet and in the direction of the washroom. Sirius let himself be led, his head spinning slightly. He was so tired and it all seemed like _so much_ , the fear and uncertainty warring inside of him with relief and unresolved anger and even lust as he felt heat pooling again in his groin as well as his cheeks. He let his eyes trail down to Remus’ bum as he followed him to the washroom, eagerly welcoming the happy heat to thaw the icy chill that had been eating away at him as he lay sleepless through the night. 

He had not meant, at first, to give in to the pull of Remus, had had every intention of holding him accountable for performing Dark Magic and trying to excuse it. But it was _Remus_ , and his anguish had been so palpable. And if existing in the stirred-up stew of his memories had proven anything to Sirius it was that he and Remus had taken for granted what precious time that they had had together. 

Remus was _different_ , and yet, so very much the same. He looked ragged, but that was not so startling; between the full moons and various turns of ill luck, Remus had often been a bit worn, a bit worse for wear. That wasn’t what troubled Sirius or what struck him as different. It was harder to put his finger on what had changed, but something was simply _off_. Sirius had assumed it might be the eve of the full moon, but upon looking out his window the night before, had gleaned that the moon had nearly a week of waxing still before it would be full. There was an edginess to Remus, a sort of freneticism that made his borders shaky and his eyes shifty and his fingers tangle together without him seeming to know it. Sirius had never seen him in such a state, had assumed that only the moon could imbue him with such unease. He couldn’t write it off as a fault in his own memory; he had been immersed in memories for the whole interminable unlife he had spent in the Betwixt. It seemed that only yesterday he had been with a hundred other moments of Remus, and none of them had had quite the uncanny glint to their amber eyes, or quite the madness about the line of the beloved mouth, as if every smile half-wanted to be a snarl and every frown half-wanted to be a laugh.

He had watched Remus sleep for a long time, and it had been easier to look at him that way. The deep, steady rhythm of his breath had been a balm to Sirius’ anxiety, the sweet repose of his features an immeasurable comfort. But even that was too passive to assuage the dread that had largely supplanted Sirius’ confusion, now that he’d gotten his chronology more or less back in order in his head.

The only real respite had been the sex, the searing, blinding ecstasy of Remus’ touch filling his whole mind, and body, and soul, regardless of how incomplete or Dark they might be. He watched admiringly as Remus turned on the shower, the muscles of his lean back shifting beneath the beautiful patchwork of scars as he leaned in to put his hand under the stream of the water to test the temperature. His hair, as much silver now as it was brown, had grown longer than he ever had tended to wear it, curling over his ears and around his nape. Sirius couldn’t resist reaching out and touching, running his fingers up from between Remus’ shoulder blades, along his neck to cradle the base of his skull. Remus glanced at him and his amber eyes were warmly curious. Sirius dropped a kiss on his shoulder, “You’re very striking, Remus,” he sincerely explained.

Remus laughed it off as he always had, pulling aside the curtain and stepping into the bathtub, “Or you’re daft.”

Sirius followed Remus, tugging the curtain shut behind them. The only light came in from the window and with the blue curtain closed, the light was cool and diffused, softened by the steam rising off the porcelain, “I can’t believe you’re, what,” the maths took him a second longer than it should have, the years still stretched in some places and truncated in others, _“Thirty-six,_ and you still haven’t learned to take a compliment.”

“Oh, thank you most dearly, I appreciate the sentiment,” Remus said with that wry slant to his voice that had delighted Sirius since he’d been a child. He watched as Remus let the water wet his hair and then tilted his head aside so the water met his shoulder and flowed down over his chest. The complexity of Remus had always puzzled and pulled Sirius; at once Dark Creature and swotty homebody, at once cringingly humble and too proud for his own good, at once fiercely loyal and the person whose distrust had wounded him the most. His scars and skinniness, premature grey hairs and shabby clothes rendered him ugly to most eyes, while Sirius had only ever been bowled over by his ember-bright eyes, his wiry secret strength, the smile people mistook for shy rather than _sly_ , the nimble hands that were as adept with a wand as they were with a pen, or as a fist, or wrapped around a cock. Maybe this change in Remus was nothing to fear or disdain, but merely a new gradient to his many contradicting shades, another reason to be grateful that he had the opportunity to _know_ Remus as no one else did, to _love_ him as no one else could. So all the same, he envied the water that got to touch Remus so thoroughly as it streamed down his skin, “It’s only,” Sirius looked back at Remus’ face when he spoke, only to find the amber gaze lowered, glittering as it raked all over his own body, “It’s rather ludicrous to be complimented with you looking like _that_.”

Sirius couldn’t help it, he preened at the praise, at the starstruck look in Remus’ eyes. It was the way Remus had looked at him when they were teenagers, after his growth spurt, when the mind-bend of puberty was tugging them towards each other inexorably. He still hadn’t quite shaken the sense that it had been only days ago; the two of them in the Potters’ back garden, surrounded by Euphemia’s asters and begonias all exploding in bloom, arguing about whether Remus should try for a NEWT in Potions until Sirius hadn’t been able to stand to look at Remus for not another instant and had grabbed the cigarette from his mouth and replaced it with his lips. When he’d pulled back reluctantly a moment later and taken a pull from the cigarette, he found that Remus’ hair had caught a few of the skinny purple aster petals in its curls and he had been gazing down at him with just that same starry-eyed look. Even during the war, when they’d been half-convinced or worse that they couldn’t trust each other, Sirius would sometimes catch that look on Remus’ face as Sirius stepped from the shower, or shook his hair out of a tie, or pulled on his old leather jacket. He knew Remus had never loved him _because_ of his beauty, but he’d certainly had a very healthy appreciation of it. After Azkaban, he had been so diminished that he’d hardly believed Remus could still want him at all, and though he had, he hadn’t looked at him _like that_. It was good, so good, to be looked at that way again. Sirius smirked, “What is it I look like?” he prompted, feeling greedy.

Remus rolled his eyes, but did not deny him. He pulled Sirius under the spray by his hips, and answered, “Like a bloody _god_ , alright?”

“Oh, _godly_ , now _that_ I’ve rarely been accused of,” Sirius grinned, looping his arms around Remus’ shoulders, allowing the banter, and the warm water, and the timeless _rightness_ of being with Moony to chase the fears and worries that gnawed at his mind.

“Yes, and an abominably vain god at that,” Remus said, without any bite. His hands left Sirius’ hips to glide up his sides, down his back, along any bit of skin that he could reach. He lowered his face to Sirius’ shoulder, nuzzling against his collarbone and the side of his neck. 

Sirius had been formulating the best way to tease Remus about how, despite being allegedly a god, he had every intention to be the one doing the worshipping but before the words came to his tongue, he felt something in the atmosphere between them shift. Remus’ arms were around his waist, pulling him close and tight, his face pressed flush against his neck. The chill that seemed to be hanging like a spectre a few paces from them caught up and seemed to fill and profane the bright, warm sweetness of being wrapped around each other. It brought to mind any number of too-close, too-raw memories; stepping into Grimmauld Place when he was home from Hogwarts on holidays and being acutely aware that it was in no way _home_ ; the feral way Remus’ shoulders had hunched and his eyes had flashed when he had returned from his mysterious absences during the war, clothes dirty and seeming at once to long for Sirius and to shove him away; the disordered shadowy blur of his time beyond the Veil when he was in no particular memory but free-wheeled through dark space, sure he was in Azkaban and that his mind had broken at last. Sirius squeezed Remus tighter, “I got you, Moons,” he reassured, brushing his lips against the shell of Remus’ ear, catching water off his skin, as if he could help anyone when he felt nearly shredded himself by the emotional shrapnel of a lifetime all torn together in his mind.

Remus nodded and held him tighter still, “I just can’t believe you’re here,” he said, a rare softness making him seem somehow smaller, younger. Sirius was possessed of a fierce need to protect him, to hold him near and never let anything threaten him ever again. He had never wished so much that he could be whole, that he could be strong, so that he could be better able to help Remus.

“Oh, Moons,” he said, tenderly petting his wet hair while holding him tighter with the other arm. He didn’t know what else to say. He so longed to shield Remus, but how could he when he suspected the madness was within Remus just as surely as it was within himself? There always had been madness in him, the Black blood always threatening to go sour in his veins, the jealousy, the distrust, the recklessness… and then the long cold of Azkaban had creeped into him, the years that blurred into one interminable, bleak night. He shivered despite the warmth of the water and Remus’ body, because then he had _died_ , he had failed and fallen, and then there had been only more darkness waiting for him, home to that maze of memories that had made a few weeks into a tangled lifetime that torn at him now as though all its edges had been sharpened anew. He shuddered again, harder, and pressed his face to Remus’ shoulder.

“Sirius?” Remus asked, “Are you okay?”

“I-I’ve been better,” Sirius said in a failed attempt at a light tone. There was some revelation brewing in his mind and it was painful getting there. He didn’t feel the way he had after Azkaban, disjointed and unwhole, suspicious of his own shadow, and stripped down to the feral bone. Death and escaping from it had altered him somehow and he shied away from the truth of it, wanting so badly to be himself, for Remus’ sake. Remus had always _deserved_ better than him, but now… If he wasn’t _himself_ , what good was he to Remus? Remus would not want some pale imitation, Remus would not want some byproduct of darkness and death, always a reminder of his own sacrifice. Remus would not want him.

“Sirius,” Remus said again and his hands held Sirius’ face now, and he was carefully examining his expression, “What’s going on?”

 _I’m an imposter,_ Sirius wanted to say, wanted to warn Moony off of trusting him. _My existence is wrong,_ he wanted to say, and _I’m so scared of us both._ Because he had to admit it to himself, he _was_ scared by the means to which Remus had gone to meet his ends. He was scared of himself for having somehow motivated it, and for being different than he’d been before. He ought to tell Moony all that, but he was selfish, he’d always been so bloody selfish and he couldn’t. He’d _tried_ in the bedroom, but it had come out vague and Remus had brushed it off. He smiled weakly, “I reckon I can’t believe I’m here either.” he said instead.

Remus’ eyes seemed to deepen and spark, the love there like a fire which caught in Sirius, heat igniting in his blood. Thank Merlin, the heat was a respite from the chill and the fear. Their lips crashed together again and it was like a cleansing fire, burning away doubt and refining thought. The wet slide of their bodies under the hot water, the dizzying rush of blood to his cock, the insistent hunger of Remus’ kiss. It was all soft blue-gold light again, and gold skin crossed by silver scars, the sweet clean salt of Remus’ skin as Sirius went like a supplicant to his knees, licking down chest and belly and along the sharp jut of his hipbones. He looked up at Remus, blinking away the water dripping from his lashes and Remus swayed on his feet at the eye contact, steadying himself against the tiled wall. 

Sirius shot him a grin before swirling his tongue around the head, nudging at the sensitive foreskin and watching a muscle in Remus’ thigh tremble. He took him deeper, eager to focus on Remus, the hot heavy weight on his tongue familiar and intoxicating and blissfully _distracting_. Remus groaned softly when he nudged the back of Sirius’ throat and Sirius pulled off slow, fluttering his tongue against the veined underside and tightening the circle of his lips. Remus made another precious sound as Sirius reached the head, and then he set to in earnest, sucking harder, moving faster, one hand moving up to Remus’ bollocks while the other strayed to his own cock, leaking and stone-hard. Remus’ hips jerked and Sirius let his thrusts set the pace. He palmed Remus’ balls and felt them tighten, knowing even before Remus spoke his name that he was close, “Sirius,” he hissed, “Don’t stop.”

Sirius couldn’t believe he was close already himself, pumping his cock harder as his finger moved behind Remus’ sack to press the powerful bundle of nerves there. Remus whined and his hands tangled in Sirius’ wet locks, need winning out as his hips sped up, fucking Sirius’ face and swearing to himself. Sirius gagged a little when Remus hit the back of his throat repeatedly and oddly he _loved_ it, something about Remus losing control and _taking_ his pleasure had always turned Sirius on like nothing else. Oddly, inexplicably, he felt most useful, most worthwhile, like that. His own orgasm snuck up on him and he was moaning on Remus’ cock, spraying cum onto his thighs and the porcelain between Remus’ feet, only to be rinsed quickly away. Remus said Sirius’ name like it was something holy and followed, his cock pulsing in Sirius’ mouth as he swallowed eagerly.

Remus tugged him to his feet and they sagged bonelessly against each other for a few moments of blessedly thoughtless silence. Remus took up a bar of soap and sweetly washed Sirius, and Sirius nearly wept at the soft touches, the gentle care with which he shampooed his hair for him. He returned the favor, happily reuniting with every bit of Remus’ body, even the ones that hadn’t warranted special attention during sex. He slowed down until he was hardly moving his hands as he lathered the shampoo into Remus’ hair, knowing that when he was done they would have to get out, “Padfoot,” Remus said, seemingly reading his mind, “I hate it, too, but we ought to hurry up. We should eat something before its time to go.”

Traitorously, Sirius’ stomach grumbled. He didn’t say anything, but he hurried up, rinsing the suds from Remus’ hair and body a little more thoroughly than was needed before reluctantly turning the shower off. They stood for a moment, dripping and looking into each other’s eyes, and then Remus opened the curtain and the unfiltered sunlight was too bright. Sirius took a steadying breath, and followed him out of the tub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!


	8. A Fickle Business

_9 July, 1996_

Things had nearly felt normal as Sirius and Remus scrounged up breakfast together, using the three unspoilt eggs in the icebox and a stale half loaf of bread to make something that wasn’t quite French Toast and wasn’t quite Bread Pudding, but was some relatively satisfying hybrid of the two. They washed it down with double strength tea, the smooth bitter blend that Remus’ Welsh mam had always favored. They had sat across from each other at the little scrubbed wooden table and as to a magnet, Remus’ eyes had been drawn to the spot where Sirius’ Splinched-off ear had sat, enshrined on the bottom of an old mug. It made him uneasy to see the spot filled instead by mugs used to hold no more than mere tea. More than once his fingers had strayed to his pocket with the futile aim of wrapping around the comforting memento of Sirius’ ear.

“What are you looking at, Moony?” Sirius had asked, around a cheekful of bread and egg, snapping Remus’ attention back to him, the man entire and thereby _better_ , Remus reminded himself harshly, than _an ear_.

“Nothing,” Remus had replied instantly, unconvincingly. Sirius had raised his eyebrows, urging him to give a better answer. Remus stirred his tea, “It’ll put you off your breakfast,” he deflected.

“That must be some very rank _nothing_ if it’s enough to kill a man’s appetite,” Sirius had pointed out, “‘Specially as I haven’t eaten in, what, twenty days?”

“Twenty-one,” Remus had corrected after a moment’s pause. He bought himself more time by taking a sip of tea. The tannin bitterness of it on his tongue was bracing, but his stomach squirmed at Sirius’ curiosity.

Sirius had frowned at him and he had to wonder what his face had done to give him away. He watched as Sirius quickly shoveled the rest of the food on his plate into his mouth in a couple of large forkfuls, chewed, swallowed, and took a gulp of his tea. He leaned back in his chair so that it balanced on the back two legs, just precisely as he’d done at fourteen, seeming to Remus then _so bloody cool_. As he had crossed his arms and cocked his head, peering at Remus through the softly drying waves of his black hair, Remus privately bemoaned how bloody cool the effect still was. Sirius inclined his head, “There, my breakfast’s done with,” he pointed out with a note of challenge.

“Sirius—” Remus had tried.

“And as for me,” Sirius had talked over him, something in his expression growing more stern, “I’m done, too. With secrets,” his brow furrowed imploringly, “Please, Remus. Don’t keep me in the dark.”

That was what had done it. Sirius had spent so much of his life (and death) in the dark and Remus would not be responsible for him spending another second in it. After all, hadn’t he refused to abandon him in the black abyss of the Betwixt? Hadn’t it been secrets and distrust that had cast them both into darkness in the first bloody war? Remus had taken a deep breath and shut his eyes, and had only just managed to eke out the confession, “I-I kept your ear.”

“Pardon?” Sirius said, and Remus had opened his eyes just in time to see Sirius’ right hand trail up to his right ear, the pad of his thumb brushing against the spot on the lobe where the piercing would have been. Remus had nodded, and Sirius had repeated, “You kept my ear.”

A surge of frustration had swelled through Remus and he’d bitten back defensively, “Yes, your ear! I kept your bloody ear!” Sirius’ eyes widened but Remus hadn’t paused long enough for him to get a word in, “You Splinched off your ear when we went to the Ministry and then you fell through the blasted _Veil_ and you were just _gone_ and then I found your _ear_ and I knew it was yours, of course, and so I _couldn’t just leave it there!_ Merlin knows the Ministry would have just chucked it out without any investigation, that’s what they bloody did to the rest of you, isn't it? And I know, _I knew_ , it was foul and, and _demented,_ and _pathetic_ but, Sirius, you were _gone!_ ” 

“Remus, no,” Sirius had started, “It wasn’t, I mean, anyone might’ve—”

“ _No_ ,” Remus had swallowed the stubborn lump in his throat, eyes shut tight, embarrassment and surprise at his own outburst dawning on him. “I put a Preserving Charm on it and I kept it in my damn pocket,” he confessed. He opened his eyes and looked at Sirius, feeling defeated by his own ugly truth, hating the admission as it slipped past his lips, “I knew it was vile, but… I needed it.”

Sirius had gone a little pale and had considered him for a moment, grey eyes narrowed slightly in thought. Remus had braced himself for the rejection, the disgust, _surely for this_ , but to his astonishment, Sirius’ lips had twitched into a lopsided smirk, “Blimey, Moony,” he’d said with relish, “How did you keep your Van Gogh complex from me all these years?!”

“My—?” Remus had stammered.

“You heard me!” the grin had been growing on Sirius’ face, “First Kreacher’s ear and now mine? Next thing you’ll be breaking out the paints and the absinthe!”

The laughter took Remus by surprise, bubbling up from the unease in his gut, up behind his ribs, and bursting out of his mouth, high and sharp. Sirius was laughing, too, and it _felt good_ , felt bloody _fantastic._ Remus couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed like that, so that his eyes welled up and his belly hurt. He realized as his laughter died down to a wheezing thing that Sirius wasn’t laughing anymore. He was still smiling, but there was a skeptical furrow upon his perfect brow, and Remus felt a stab of guilt and pushed back against the tasteless humor of it, insisting even while the breathlessness of his ebbing laughter betrayed him, “Sirius, it’s not a joke, it’s… it’s _revolting!_ ”

Sirius had cupped a hand around his ear protectively, “It’s a perfectly fine ear, thank you very much,” he’d countered, but there was some tension in his voice now that made Remus’ dying mirth crumple into a frown. Seeing the expression, Sirius sighed and relented, “Moony, honestly… it’s a bit disgusting and it’s a bit cracked, but is it really worth making a fuss about? Everything has gone a bit cracked, hasn’t it? It doesn’t bother me, or well, not half so much as… other things I’m trying to be alright with. Okay?”

Remus had nodded, mainly because he knew it was what Sirius wanted, what might smooth that furrow from his perfect forehead. In truth, he wondered if Sirius wasn’t more right than he knew, if he wasn’t even more _cracked_ than he seemed.”

Sirius had glanced at the clock on the wall and all the light humor and reassurance had fallen from his frame, his edges stiffening into the straight-backed Pureblood posture he’d never quite managed to unlearn. He let the front legs of his chair fall back against the floor and his expression had been both pleading and stoic as he’d entreated, “It’s nearly one, Remus. Please, we’ve got to face Dumbledore as a united front. We need to be on the same page, so just, truly, I don’t give a kneazle’s tit if you carried my ear around in your mouth the whole time, okay?”

Remus had pulled a face at that, feeling compelled to defend what little credibility remained to him, “I never put it in my mouth… just in my pocket, but… you’ve made your point,” he said, but stood up and walked around the table, and offering Sirius his hand, he’d added, “You’re right, though. A united front… Albus has to see we’re a team.”

Sirius had beamed at him, nodding, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze as he stood, “Damn right we are, Moons.”

And they had yet to let go of each other’s hands. They were seated together now in Dumbledore’s office, and it felt a bit as though they were about to be docked house points. A combination of nerves and the after-effects of the portkey was causing Remus’ breakfast to churn in his belly. Sirius squeezed Remus’ hand between their chairs and it bolstered him, encouraging him to meet Dumbledore’s eyes. 

Only Dumbledore was not looking at him. He sat serenely at his desk, long slender fingers steepled, crystal blue eyes peering at Sirius through his half-moon spectacles. He was silent for a long moment before he folded his hands neatly atop his desk and said, “I have long entertained the notion that the boundary between life and death was one with a certain degree of plasticity, but I cannot say that I ever suspected to see it stretch quite so generously.”

Sirius did not miss a beat, replying dryly, “It’s nice to see you too, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore smiled placidly, and if he took any offense, his expression betrayed no sign of it, “Indeed, Sirius, the feeling is mutual. Although,” his expression grew apologetic, “It would be nicer, I should think, if we could enjoy the certainty that you are, in fact, who and what you seem to be.”

Sirius and Remus’ hands tightened between them simultaneously. A frantic voice in the back of Remus’ head seemed to speak up, begging Dumbledore to _take it back_ , not to even _suggest_ that Sirius might not be real, “What did you have in mind, Albus?” Remus asked, his voice coming out tight. 

Dumbledore’s eyes moved to him, as if remembering he was there, “Nothing daunting, I assure you,” Remus fought to try and keep his expression neutral as the voice inside him increased in volume, insisting defiantly that _even_ if Sirius wasn’t entirely real or entirely whole, he was _enough_ , so much _more than enough,_ and Remus would tear Dumbledore to shreds before he let him come between them. Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to scan Remus’ face, and he went on, “If Sirius would be so kind as to allow it, I should like to perform some perfectly harmless diagnostic charms, Deception Detecting, and so forth. Quite routine. I am sure, of course, Remus, that you did so yourself upon Sirius’... return, but it would put an old man’s mind at ease to see for myself.” The words were polite, as unfailingly _polite_ as Dumbledore always was, but the reprimands and censure couched between his calm words found their mark. The voice inside of him seemed to _growl_. Perhaps the wolf had taught it how to do that, Remus thought inanely as he felt a growl trying to climb out of his own throat. _How dare_ Dumbledore chide him like an irresponsible child when he had _defeated death itself_. Who did the old man think he was, what _right_ did he have to question Remus’ _power_? Sirius squeezed his hand hard enough to hurt and he cleared his throat, as if the growl was just an itch he could cough away. He squeezed back, and attempted not to worry about the nature of his own offense.

“Fine with me,” Sirius said with affected carelessness, “Have at it.”

Dumbledore nodded graciously and withdrew his wand from the folds of his spangled peridot-green robes. Remus swallowed hard against the growl as Dumbledore pointed the wand at Sirius. Dumbledore did not speak a word as he waved and traced his wand through the air in Sirius’ direction, rather impressively performing all of the complex spells wordlessly. Remus recognized each of them, could sense and smell them, could feel the pull and push and shifts of pressure and temperature, the hints of metallic, vegetal, and caustic scents gone as swiftly as they had come. Sirius’ hand held his very hard, and after a few moments, Dumbledore placed his wand on the desk and smiled. 

This smile was different than the polite, calm mask that he so often wore to put people at ease, but honest and bright. Remus felt his hackles rise at the sight of it, the wolf bristling in recognition of the _hunger_ in it, the particular covetous way that one canine tooth pressed against his lip. It wasn’t _Sirius_ Dumbledore was happy to see, but the magical accomplishment of it, and surely, the various possibilities that Remus’ power opened up to him.

Remus had been ready to be roundly chastised, if not flat out cast off or locked up, but this was even worse than that. The cogs of tactical utility could plainly be seen on Dumbledore’s face, turning and turning away. It made Remus sick, made him wish he had his fangs. It wasn’t for Dumbledore’s ends that he had brought Sirius back, _hell_ , if not for Dumbledore, he doubted very much Sirius would have even needed bringing back in the first place!

“Bravo, gentlemen,” Dumbledore said, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin against them, cushioned by his beard, “This is a rare piece of magic indeed,” despite himself, the part of Remus that was so chuffed with the newfound breadth of his own power preened under the praise, even as the rest of him resented its plainly manipulative aims, “I confess that I thought to find a meager facsimile, a shadow or imitation, but this does appear to be a true reanimation.” He shook his head with an expression of impressed disbelief.

“Cheers,” Sirius said, acidly sarcastic.

Dumbledore laughed, “How could I ever have doubted that you were, in truth, Sirius Black,” his tone would have sounded fond if Remus had not known him so well. Dumbledore turned his attention to Remus then and his blue eyes glittered, clearly evaluating the man before him. Remus sat up a little straighter, meeting Dumbledore’s gaze head-on as the wolf growled inside him and the _power_ eagerly rose to the acknowledgement, “And as for you, Remus, I do not hesitate to tell you that you have my admiration. Necromancy is the most costly of the arcane arts, and you no doubt do not need me to tell you that it is a most fickle business. I should very much like to discuss the particularities of your achievement.”

Remus opened his mouth to respond, but Sirius spoke before he could, “There are some other _particularities_ that we had better talk about first,” Remus could feel Sirius’ eyes on him, and much as he wanted to meet them, he refused to be the one to drop Dumbledore’s gaze.

Dumbledore’s keen blue eyes slid back to Sirius, “Go on, Sirius.”

“I’m not hiding,” Sirius said, and Remus felt a wild rush of _wonder_ at him as he tilted his jaw up, daring Dumbledore to so much as _try_ and tell him otherwise, “Not at Grimmauld Place, not anywhere. I didn’t go through twelve years in Azkaban and _death itself_ just to spend my life cooped up in some bloody safehouse. I’ll gladly Disillusion or Polyjuice or disguise myself some other way, but I’m going to fight this war _properly_ and when I’m not fighting, I’m going to be free to go for a bloody stroll.”

“Better yet,” Remus put in, before Dumbledore could speak, giddy with the nearness of justice, “Would be an actual pardon.”

Dumbledore stroked his beard and answered diplomatically, “I shall see what I can do,” he must have seen the anger on both of their faces, because he added, “But I quite agree that Mr Black was egregiously wasted at Grimmauld Place. It may not be enough, Sirius, but I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies. I should have known better.”

Sirius shifted in his chair, “Apology accepted,” he said, and there was no mistaking it for forgiveness.

“Very well,” Dumbledore began, ready to move past this unpleasantness, surely, but Remus interrupted him.

“We aren’t finished,” a flicker of impatience was just detectable on Dumbledore’s face, but he gestured for Remus to continue, “We understand the importance of discretion,” Remus said, and Sirius squeezed his hand encouragingly, “But respectfully, Albus, keeping your secrets nearly lost us the first war and it cost a very _steep price_ ,” Remus’ voice cracked slightly with emotion, “Whatever our duties for the Order might be going forward, expect that Sirius and I will be keeping no secrets from each other.”

“I understand the inclination,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling as he glanced down at their clasped hands, “And I am always cheered by seeing love and loyalty valued foremost,” he paused for a second as if choosing his words carefully, “And yet I would still caution you against utter transparency, which may prove to be a serious liability should one of you find yourself at the unlucky end of a curious Death Eater’s wand.”

“We appreciate your guidance, sir,” Sirius said, cutting in before the angry words welling up Remus’ throat could fly from his tongue, “But, with all due respect, it’s not bloody up to you how we conduct our private affairs.” Remus blinked at the role reversal; hadn’t it always been _him_ keeping _Sirius_ from undiplomatic outbursts?

Dumbledore looked as though he wanted to issue another unsolicited piece of advice, but Sirius spoke again before he could, “And we’re going to tell Harry ourselves.”

Dumbledore’s mouth tightened at that, accustomed as he was to being the one in charge of how much or how little the boy knew. For a second Remus was sure he was going to argue. _Merlin,_ he wished he would dare, he had never been so ready to go head to head with the so-called ‘ _greatest wizard of modern times’_. But then Dumbledore nodded, “I fail to see any reason you should not tell Harry. It is your news to tell far more than it is mine.”

“We, actually, we’re planning on going to tell him once we leave here,” Sirius said, again challenging Dumbledore to find fault with their intentions.

The corners of Dumbledore’s eyes tightened to match his mouth, “I realize you boys have everything figured out,” Remus scoffed in annoyance at the patronizing tone, earning a warning glance from Sirius, “But if you’ll allow a _suggestion_ , it might be wiser for me to have Harry join us _here_ rather than for you to cause a commotion at the Burrow. This is the sort of delicate news that is better shared gradually and privately.”

Remus glanced sideways and met Sirius’ eyes. He saw his own grudging agreement with Dumbledore’s advice mirrored back at him. He nodded slightly and Sirius addressed Dumbledore, “Thank you, sir, we agree.”

Dumbledore stood from his desk, eyes twinkling, “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I believe I’ve a letter to send.”

***

No sooner had Dumbledore risen from his seat than Sirius felt the familiar blanket-like weight of Remus’ _muffliato_ settle over him, though there was a static crackle to it that was new. Under its nonetheless reassuring protection, he murmured, "Suppose that went… alright."

They watched Dumbledore stride away from them, robes sweeping. "He's a bastard," Remus hissed, and Sirius was surprised at the vitriol in his voice.

"Remus..." Sirius chastised half-heartedly. For his part, Sirius couldn’t help but agree, could feel his own blood still simmering at the way Dumbledore had looked at Remus. For all his talk of love and ethics, he seemed untroubled by any risk the means of his return had meant for Remus' soul. He tried not to think about whether it was because Dumbledore esteemed himself over the soul of a werewolf, or if he cared not a whit about either of them, and cared only for the proof that it could be done. Each possibility sickened Sirius more than the last.

“Well, he _is_ , Padfoot! Worse than a bastard!” Remus insisted, as Sirius watched Dumbledore’s ascent up a spiral of steps to the upper gallery of his office, where he leaned over a very old-looking writing desk, withdrew a sheaf of parchment, and produced an ostentatious ostrich quill seemingly from nowhere, “He’s never given a _shit_ about me, and now that he sees what I’m truly capable of, something _he’s_ never dared so much as _try_ , now he wants to talk _particularities_ and—”

“Moony, I’m not arguing with you,” Sirius watched Remus relax slightly to hear his tacit agreement. Dumbledore was dipping his quill and Sirius looked away from him, swiveling in his seat to face Remus as he went on, “Of course, he’s a bastard,” one of those unhinged smiles seemed to wobble across Remus’ lips, but at seeing the quiet desperation in Sirius’ expression, it wilted, “But, Moons, you’ve got to keep your cool. We—”

“ _You’re_ telling _me_ to keep—?” Remus started hotly.

“Oh, spare me the fucking irony, please,” Sirius squeezed his hand, his thumb grazing the knuckles, a silent placation, “But you’ve just sniped at me and I _know_ you’re angry, and _believe me_ , I’m angry, too! But we’ve got to be cooperative and, and _civil_. At least enough to stay on his good side.”

Privately Sirius couldn’t have agreed with Remus more emphatically, the indignation of it all gnawing at his ribs, but he thought of _Harry_ , who with any luck would be in the room with them before too long. Harry _needed_ them to behave like adults, to work together _even_ with Dumbledore, or maybe _especially_ with Dumbledore. The thought of Harry relying on them bestowed the strength he needed to push aside the old grudge. He just needed to somehow get Remus to do the same.

“Think of Harry,” Sirius suggested, hoping that perhaps it would ground Remus as it had him. Remus was very fond of Harry, Sirius knew, and felt a certain sense of duty towards him as James and Lily’s son, but Sirius suspected that he didn’t share Sirius’ own dog-like dedication to the boy. And that was Remus _before_ , not this strange new Remus who had glared at Dumbledore as if he meant to feed him to the wolf. 

Sirius looked back at Dumbledore, who had rolled up his parchment and was now tapping a Chocolate Frog box with his wand, making it glow briefly gold around the edges, “Harry trusts Dumbledore,” he said, much as he disliked that truth. He thought of the contents of Harry’s many cherished letters, and how the boy’s bond with his close-lipped headmaster oozed from every line, “Harry is _loyal_ to Dumbledore.”

“He doesn’t care about Harry,” Remus grumbled, sullenly.

“I think you’ll find that he actually does,” Sirius said, though he was rather displeased with it himself. Sirius watched Remus mull that over as Dumbledore opened the window, a tawny owl alighting eagerly on the sill at once. Dumbledore fished an owl treat from a dish on the writing desk and smiled as the bird pecked it from his palm. He stroked the feathers atop its head, “But it isn’t just about Harry, though,” Sirius continued. He leaned forward in his chair and picked up a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ from Dumbledore’s desk, to which his eyes had wandered while the old man had performed the diagnostic charms. Sirius had sought only to distract himself from the fear that his own creeping suspicions about _not really being himself_ might prove true, but what he had seen there had been even more chilling perhaps than matters of his own authenticity. 

He handed it to Remus. He carefully watched Remus’ expression turn from pique to horror as his eyes slid over the words emblazoned across the front pages articles: _FOUR MUGGLES DEAD IN DEVON, ‘HOME PROTECTION WARDS FOR EVERY HOUSEHOLD’ URGES MINISTER, BOOKSELLER SLIMCHANGE MISSING AND PRESUMED DEAD, DARK MARK SPOTTED IN CARDIFF._ For a sick moment, Sirius’ grasp on linear time slithered away from him and he was sure the date on the paper had to be the summer of ‘81, and not of ‘96, he and Remus passing it between them wordlessly over porridge that tasted ashen with fear, in the flat that had been filled with too much distrust and too little joy. Remus’ grip on Sirius’ hand tightened almost painfully, bringing him back and anchoring him, here and now, “There’s a war on,” Sirius said, finding his voice again, “And… and if it’s anything like the last, things are going to get much worse before they get any better, Moons. Much as we’ve let ourselves, much as I’d _like to,_ Remus, we _can’t_ think only of ourselves.” It was a shock that niggled uneasily in his gut that he should have to remind Remus at all — Remus, who had spent so much of the first war fretting over his Muggle mother, pointing out at the slightest sign of wizardly entitlement that wizards weren’t the only people in danger.

The nearness of the memory of those days and the sense that they had come again pulled a whine from Sirius that sounded as though the dog Padfoot had been kicked. He needed to keep his wits together, especially if Remus could not, but he felt dreadfully tired, and he could not shake the dismal knowledge that he would be unable to find solace in sleep. He had allowed himself some measure of relief when Dumbledore had confirmed that he was human, was truly himself reanimated, but there was still that vile nagging uncertainty. But it didn’t entirely matter, it made no difference to the dead Muggles in the paper, to the Muggleborns in fear of losing their wands, their jobs, their lives, nor to any of the innumerable people and creatures that _someone_ needed to protect. 

The same seemed to dawn on Remus, as he dropped the _Prophet_ back on Dumbledore’s desk. He met Sirius’ eyes and they were weary, and they seemed to waver slightly, as though it took some effort to keep his gaze trained in one place. He gave a small nod, squeezed Sirius’ hand, and agreed, “Okay,” though his voice came out shorn and low. Sirius favored him with a smile, relieved to be back on the same page. He still shivered slightly at the loss of Remus’ gaze when he looked away, wordlessly lifting the insulating weight of the _muffliato_. Sirius followed Remus’ eyes, looking up to see Dumbledore descending the steps, the owl no more than a speck now against the blue sky in the distance.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” Dumbledore said, and they got to their feet. _Very cooperatively_ , Sirius thought. Dumbledore led them to a polished walnut door — Sirius had never noticed it despite countless visits to the Headmaster’s office over the years, but he knew the castle far too well to be surprised by its remaining mysteries — and opened it. Dumbledore made a florid ‘ _after-you’_ gesture with one hand and Remus did so with a nod, pulling Sirius along. 

Clinging to Moony was far more important than standing his ground. That had never been the case before and Sirius wondered, as he had so often had occasion to do lately, if that change was good or bad. How could he do otherwise, though? Remus needed him now surely more than he ever had before; he’d always been the most self-sufficient among them! And Sirius could sympathize, could _empathize_ , surely more than anyone else ever could with the battering that Remus’ irrepressible soul had taken lately. It was with just-yesterday vividness that he could recall how he had floundered under life’s unkind hand again and again. Acting out because of his parents’, doing harm to Regulus, and Snape, and Remus himself, and Merlin knew who else in his carelessly swinging rebellions. The weight of the first war had transformed him like the heat of a crucible and he’d grown erratic and cruel, lashing out at friends and recklessly ruthless in battle. And of course, he recalled how shattered apart by betrayal and fury he had been that forsaken Halloween night; with Prongs and Lily lost to him; with the new scope of understanding that Remus was innocent but distrusted or even hated _him_ ; with the Peter he’d loved and thought he’d known gone and replaced by a beacon of everything that was broken beyond hope of mending. Remus, by some miracle, had weathered the beating his spirit had taken then and in the years before and since, had weathered the agony of full moons and demoralizing limitations of bigotry all his life! Sirius had to marvel at Remus’ devotion to _him_ , undeserving though he was and had ever been of that inestimable prize, that it was his death that had been what finally fractured that seemingly endless resilience to pain. What horrid new sort of monster would he be, if he were to turn from Remus now? 

The room Dumbledore had brought them to appeared to be a sort of study. It was not a large space and the sheer number of books that crowded the walls made it seem smaller still. It was a relief to be away from the nosy gazes of the portraits of Headmasters and Headmistresses, though, and there was a cozy aura to the room. It seemed to melt some of the tension from Sirius’ mind and body, and he wondered if it was bewitched to be relaxing, a respite from the demands of being in charge of Hogwarts, and in Dumbledore’s case, in charge of far more.

“Harry should be joining us shortly,” Dumbledore said, shutting the door behind him, “I have sent him a portkey and a brief note. Per your request, I did not disclose the contents of your news, but merely told him that there _was_ news to be shared and that he would want to see for himself.”

“Thank you, Albus,” Remus said, sounding sincere, and Sirius felt a wash of gratitude for him for speaking up and for doing so civilly. He couldn’t make words come just then. Excitement to see Harry bubbled in his guts, evicting all other thoughts and concerns, but there was something sinister and acidic there with it. It took him a moment to identify it as nervousness and doubt. Harry was not likely to take this revelation with the nearly unshakeable calm of Dumbledore. He was the child of _James_ and _Lily_ , after all, and for all the numerous strengths they had possessed between the two of them, it could not be said that it took a great deal to ruffle either of their feathers. Sirius felt a wash of longing for them both, wishing mightily that it were possible to bring them back, too. New perfect bodies wouldn’t have rendered them much different from how they had been at twenty-one when they died; they’d look more like Harry’s long-lost older siblings than his parents, it occurred to him. 

Sirius shivered at the unnatural thought, even if he knew it to be no less natural than the breath in his own restored lungs. Remus gave his hand a sharp squeeze, almost enough to hurt, and it brought him back to the present. As uncentered as Remus himself was right now, he seemed still to have sensed the spiral starting in Sirius’ head. Sirius reminded himself that not all things revolved around him even if this meeting did, in a way. Perhaps Remus had squeezed his hand in response to something in the conversation he and Dumbledore were having. Sirius refocused on their voices, trying to catch up on what they were saying.

“…seemed to think most of the larger packs have split up since the old days,” Remus was saying, and Sirius knew from his tone that he was making every effort to sound calm. 

“ _Most_ is not all,” Dumbledore said lightly, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Reluctantly Remus did, his voice sharpening at he bit out, “Oh, just say what you mean for once, Albus. Greyback’s numbers have grown, yes, but that doesn’t _matter!_ ”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows lifted slightly, “Why would valuable intel such as that not matter, pray tell?”

“Well,” Remus’ teeth were gritted tight as he spoke and Sirius stroked the back of his hand in vain, “Greyback _knows_ I was a bloody double agent before! I’d have better luck teaching ballet to mountain trolls!”

Dumbledore chuckled and Sirius wondered how hard he’d have to punch the man’s crooked nose to break it again, “As charming a diversion as that would be,” he twinkled, “I have no need of dancing mountain trolls.”

“ _Fucking—_ ,” the word was more breath and fury than sound, “Albus,” Remus said, failing to keep the anger from his voice, “Werewolves have no compassion for traitors, Greyback’s pack would kill me _on sight_!” The thought made Sirius’ boiling blood cringe cold.

“I imagine disguising yourself would not be helpful?” Dumbledore said, and Sirius might have been impressed by his gall if he wasn’t so angered by it.

Remus gave a hoarse, humorless laugh, “It would be _worse_ than not helpful, it would be an _insult_. The biggest ‘fuck-you’!” Dumbledore actually tilted his head curiously, the bastard, “He’s my _sire_ ,” Remus went on, voice faltering with impatience, “He knows me by _scent_ and, and _magical signature_ , and Merlin knows if there are even words for what else,” he gestured vaguely with one hand, “It would be like trying to convince a mother that her child was a stranger simply by putting him in a hat and sunglasses!”

Dumbledore opened his mouth, but Sirius spoke up, unwilling to let Dumbledore push the issue another second, worried for both Dumbledore and Remus’ sakes. “I think Remus has made himself clear, sir.”

Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles, though he lacked the decency to look abashed, “I must agree with you, Sirius,” he said, tone undeterred as he continued, “The banshees in Ireland—”

“Will not care to speak to a _man,_ ” Remus pointed out, stressing each word as though condescending to a child, “Being a werewolf won’t help their opinion of me,” before Dumbledore could say anything, Remus pivoted the conversation, changing the topic without a great deal of grace, the words unreasonably stained by the anger that was radiating off of him, “The opinion of _you_ , however, is rather improved lately, wouldn’t you say, Albus? Now that everyone knows you were telling the truth about Voldemort’s return?”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly at the segue, but he did not resist it, “Yes… I suppose one could say that _opinion_ of me has improved,” he added humbly, “Though, you know I’ve never overly concerned myself with popularity.”

“Nor have I, but it certainly has its uses,” Remus went on, leaning towards Dumbledore with an unsettling eagerness, “And with a new Minister in office and changes already being made, it would be the ideal time to petition a pardon for Sirius,” Dumbledore’s back straightened almost imperceptibly, “And I doubt there’d be much pushback, what with the public so distracted by other fears! A murderer of a bunch of Muggles might have been their greatest worry a couple years ago, when their world was a more peaceful one, but now?” he gave a bitter laugh that didn’t necessarily do much to help him point, “Well, they simply have greater threats to worry about, the _Prophet_ probably wouldn’t even consider it worthy of the front page!”

“You may be right,” Dumbledore conceded.

“I _am_ right,” Remus insisted with a growl in his voice, “And more importantly, _Sirius is innocent_ ,” his voice creaked with passion as he went on, “Hell, he’s owed _better_ than a pardon! The Ministry ought to give him some kind of reparations for a dozen years imprisonment without so much as a bloody trial!”

“You both know that I regret the circumstances of Sirius’ imprisonment,” Dumbledore said, although Sirius did not, in fact, know that. He thought about pointing out as much but he doubted it would bring the atmosphere back towards civility. Before he had decided, there was a palpable shift in the magical atmosphere that stopped him. He had never been able to so acutely sense magic in use, but apparently it was one of the things this second life had given him, in exchange for his ability to sleep and a hide that carried the souvenirs of thirty-odd years of life. 

Only seconds later, Harry’s voice could be heard out in Dumbledore’s office proper, and Sirius’ heart beat faster, “Headmaster?” he called, and he sounded a little further away when he added a moment later, “Hello? Professor Dumbledore, are you here?”

“Pardon me,” Dumbledore said, a joking tone to his voice that had not been there before and felt rather out of place, “But I’m afraid the last time I had Harry in my office, he broke a great many of my belongings, I believe I had best retrieve him before he recalls what a lark that was.” Dumbledore’s odd words only added to the worry mounting steadily within Sirius. That did not _sound_ like Harry; the boy was not accident-prone and what’s more, had always given Sirius the sense that he _valued_ belongings as someone could only if they were accustomed to owning very little. It was a trait he’d been somewhat aghast to find in Harry — who by all rights should have been spoiled rotten by his parents just as James’ parents had spoiled him — but also charmed by it, just as he had been by the same quality in Remus in their schooldays. Dumbledore left the room, shutting the door behind him, and suddenly Sirius was consumed with the realness of it, that any second he’d be confronting Harry.

“Moony,” Sirius said, the instant Dumbledore vanished from sight. The anxiety was threatening to overtake the excitement within him, rather defying his suspicions that there may be some kind of Calming Charm on the study, “What if he _hates_ me?”

Remus scoffed, “Don’t be stupid,” he said and then seemed to remember himself, casting Sirius an apologetic look, “R-really, I wouldn’t worry about that,” he went on, “It’s _me_ he’s going to hate. I’d lay money on it.”

“He shouldn’t,” Sirius heard himself saying, breathy, before he’d even fully formed the thought, “He shouldn’t hate you.”

“Is that so?” Remus asked, one brow arching sardonically, even as Sirius could observe real curiosity on his face, “As I recall, it’s only been about a day since you were halfway to hating me.”

Sirius shook his head, frowning. It wasn’t _hate_ he’d felt for Remus, and even if it had been, his relationship to the entire matter of his resurrection was rather more intimate that Harry’s. He wanted to tell Remus this, wanted to put it into words in a way that would be compelling and honest, but before he figured out how to do that, the door to the study opened. All he saw of Dumbledore was his arm, gently herding Harry into the room as he stated, “I hope you’ll excuse my leave-taking, Harry, only I’ve a rather flummoxing crossword puzzle which I am eager to complete, and the news you are about to receive has already been given to me. You have my word, though, I shall be nearby should you have need of me,”

Harry made an inarticulate sound of polite acceptance, but it died in his throat as vividly green eyes landed on Sirius’ face. Harry’s jaw visibly dropped, and he blinked twice. His brow furrowed as he actually (quite endearingly) swiped at the lenses of his glasses with the cuffs of the too-large Muggle sweatshirt he wore, as if some truly outrageous smudge on the glass bore an uncanny resemblance to his godfather. When he crammed his glasses back on his face a bit crookedly and found Sirius still there, his eyes widened and he took a step nearer. His gaze moved over Sirius and Sirius could practically hear the list in Harry’s head as he catalogued all that was unfamiliar. Sirius realized that he had no idea if Harry had even ever seen a picture of him in his youth, apart from the mugshot that had been plastered all over the Wizarding World a few years prior. If that was all he’d seen, then likely Sirius’ again-glossy hair and again-luminous complexion would be entirely unfamiliar to him.

Harry’s eyes snapped back to Sirius’ face, locking with his eyes for a second before he rounded on Remus. In an instant, all his considerable resemblance to James seemed to evaporate and it might as well have been Lily Evans who stood before them, newly sixteen and formidable, in a towering fury over some prank. This was more severe than any prank, though, and Harry’s unpitying tone reflected this as he asked, “What did you _do_ , Lupin?”

***

Remus had known. He had known he was going against Harry’s wishes, that he was being disingenuous, that his actions were likely to incite Harry’s anger. He had known that he may well lose Harry’s trust, and he’d thought he’d made peace with that. It had been worth it, even, he had thought, for the sake of Sirius. But face-to-face with Harry’s towering fury now, he felt about half a meter tall, “Harry,” he managed to say, “I’m _sorry,_ I—”

“I _trusted_ you!” Harry erupted, his words searing with the heat of his anger, “When I told you about Vold—” Harry tugged at his hair — how achingly odd to see the acutely _James_ gesture paired with the angry flash of Lily’s eyes, Remus’ mind bending at both of their seeming presence in the room after fifteen years dead — leaving it even messier as he gestured between himself and Remus with both hands, “I thought we were on the same bloody side!”

Remus stood up straighter at that, he might have done wrong by Harry, but he certainly hadn’t defected. In _that,_ at least, he was confident, “We _are_ on the same side, Harry, of course, we—”

“NO!” Harry shouted, his voice ringing in the confined little study off of Dumbledore’s office. It was suddenly easy to imagine Harry destroying Dumbledore’s possessions as the man had alleged, “ _I’m_ still on the side that’s going _AGAINST_ the Dark Arts, not-not GIVING THEM A TRY!” Harry slapped his chest to emphasize himself as he raged on, and Remus couldn’t help the way he flinched protectively, recalling exactly the feel of that same chest weeks before as his arms restrained Harry from tumbling headlong to his own demise. 

Sirius squeezed Remus’ hand, and thank Merlin for that, because otherwise he might have disintegrated under Harry’s blazing green gaze as his upper lip curled in disdain. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, the words coming fast and sharp, “Why even go through me? Why not just owl your old chum Wormtail if you were going to sink to his level?”

Harry might as well have struck him. In fact, it would have hurt a great deal _less_ if Harry had struck him. Remus couldn’t help it, he recoiled from the accusation with a violent shudder. He would be the first to concede that he’d done reprehensible things, but to be compared to _Peter_. Peter, whose weakness and disloyalty and deceit had wrought so much destruction and agony on the people he was supposed to have loved… The pain of the accusation was followed directly by an ice-chill of dubious fear, because he didn’t _know_. His own moral center had shifted so far, his bias threw him so off-balance, and the shame of having betrayed Prongs’ son was so fresh that Remus truly couldn’t have determined how his crimes measured up against Wormtail’s. And wasn’t that damning all on its own?

“You don’t mean that,” Remus jumped at the sound of Sirius’ voice. He had been drawn so deep within the snarl of his own doubt that he’d nearly lost track of where he was. Sirius’ hand was clutching his so vice-tight that his fingertips prickled, but he squeezed back, trying to ground himself. He couldn’t afford to spiral right now, he needed to defend his choices, in spite of his own shaky grasp on how defensible he was.

He opened his eyes, realizing as he did that he had had them shut. Harry’s gaze had moved back to Sirius again for the first time since he’d initially stared, upon entering the room. Just like his parents, Harry didn’t have much in the way of a poker-face, and Remus could plainly read the wariness writ large upon his features, “I _do_ mean it,” he said, holding his chin up defiantly, “And if you were _really_ Sirius, you’d back me up,” it was Sirius’ turn to flinch, though his was better disguised after years of practice, little more than a slight twitch of the shoulders, a scarce curving of the spine. Remus recognized it, though, and Harry seemed to as well, pressing harder, “You’d be _furious with him for—_ ”

“Oh, he _was_ furious, make no mistake,” Remus put in, hoping that if he just talked through it, Harry might not hear the tremble in his voice.

“ _Incensed_ ,” Sirius confirmed, somehow making his voice light and casual, splintering some of the tension in the room with that damned _ease_ that had always so eluded Remus. He glanced at Remus as he added, “I didn’t compare him to Wormtail, though.”

“Most appreciated,” Remus said, his voice gaining a little more strength under Sirius’ gaze, falling into their familiar back and forth. If Harry hated him, there was little he could do to change it, but at least Sirius was still on his side, hand-in-hand.

“Harry, I get why you might not want to take our word for it, given the circumstances,” Sirius said, and Remus felt a mighty swell of pride at how well Sirius had been comporting himself, “If you’d rather hear it from Professor Dumbledore, by all means, we can call him in. He had confirmed only a little while before you got here that I really am who I appear to be,” Some of the righteous anger was sliding from Harry’s slight frame, but his fists remained clenched at his sides, unwilling or unable to let himself believe it. His eyes lingered for an instant on their linked hands, “I know I look rather worse for wear,” Sirius went on, with a faux graveness to his tone, and Harry’s eyes flicked back to his face, “But I did think you’d still recognize me.”

Harry scowled, shaking his head, “Don’t mock me,” he warned, but curiosity seemed to be getting the better of him, “Why do you—?” his attention shifted back to Remus, who bristled uneasily, “Why did you make him look like _that_?” his eyes slipped down to their hands again, but only for a second before holding Remus’ gaze.

“Oh, I can’t take credit for that,” Remus said honestly, his tone falling short of light, “My… I aimed only to give Sirius a body again, and to bring his soul back from the limbo where it was caught. I didn’t give much thought to how he’d look.”

“Just a happy accident,” Sirius said, going so far as to wink cheekily at Harry. It would never cease to astonish Remus just how irresistible Sirius’ wink could be. Harry, as it happened, was not immune and Remus caught the corner of his lips twitch, before he bit back the impulse to smile. Sirius’ voice was sincere when he spoke again. It wasn’t even directed at him, but Remus felt he might melt at it, even though he was well-versed in the contrivance of it. That one-two-punch of lovable cockiness followed immediately by heartfelt sincerity that had swayed so many a professor out of doling out detentions, had thawed Remus’ own willful anger many more times than he could count, “Harry,” Sirius said, in that earnest voice, “Listen, I understand, truly. And Merlin, I may be an utter abomination, a crime against nature and so forth,” an uncertain hesitation, as if steeling himself. Remus didn’t know, had never known, if it was masterful manipulation or authentic magnetic vulnerability, “But for my part, I, well, I’m bloody chuffed to see you.”

Not immune, indeed — the effect was instantaneous. Harry’s eyes seemed even greener as they filled with tears that he tried valiantly to blink away. His voice was thick as he demanded of Remus with less conviction than before, “You told me he was _gone!_ ”

“I thought he was, Harry,” Remus said, gently as he could, “And he _was_ , in-in a way. You said it yourself, and you were _right_ , being gone and being dead are not the same thing.”

A tear escaped the corner of Harry’s eye and he swiped it away impatiently, in a gesture that was entirely too reminiscent of Lily, always most stubborn at the moment when her anger was beginning to cool but she wasn’t yet quite ready to let it go, “Just can’t believe you _used_ me, I-I—” Harry’s voice cracked badly, reminding Remus with a pang just how _young_ the boy before him was, “I can’t believe you _hid_ it from — I should have had a _say!_ I could’ve stopped you, or,” his tearful gaze flicked guiltily back to Sirius, “Or h-helped you!”

Remus couldn’t help but smile sadly at that, shaking his head, “Harry,” he said, shaky but gentle, “It took a great deal of justification and fighting with myself to put my own soul at risk. I never would have stood by while you risked the same.”

“You’re s-such a bloody _hypocrite!_ ” Harry all but wailed, failing to be forceful as the tide of his emotions turned and just like that, his resemblance to Lily receded and he was all James, every fiber of him idealistic, and loyal, and far more sensitive than he wanted anyone to know, “What makes _your soul_ alright t-to j-jeopardize? Is it some rubbish about being a werewolf?” he demanded, “How would my _dad_ have liked it?”

“He’d have hated it,” Sirius answered without an instant of hesitation, his hand only now slipping from Remus’ as he took a step towards Harry, head inclined to try and hold his gaze, “But he’d have worse than hated it if Moony let _you_ get mixed up in it,” Remus opened and closed his slightly sweaty hand, trying not to feel bereft of Sirius’ grounding touch. 

Harry took a half-step back from Sirius’ approach, who halted at once, with a wince, “I’m sorry,” he said, in a rush, taking an uncertain step back and holding up his hands apologetically. His voice had lost its confidence, “You must be so overwhelmed, I just, I’m _sorry_. You don’t owe me a thing, Harry, of course, if you don’t want anything to do with—”

For a split second, Harry blinked in puzzlement and then he threw his arms around Sirius’ waist, squeezing him so tight Remus was surprised he couldn’t hear Sirius’ ribs creak, “Shut up,” Harry said thickly, even though Sirius already had, mouth open slightly in surprise, “I thought I’d never see you again and, and, well, if Dumbledore says you’re Sirius, than I reckon you _are_ and _of course_ , I want to—” he cut himself off, pulling back slightly to look past Sirius, straight into Remus’ eyes, “And, and probably you, too, but you both aren’t bloody off the hook yet!” his gaze was steely even through his tears as he demanded, “I need a full explanation, the whole story, every bit of it,” Remus’ face must have shown his reluctance because anger flickered in Harry’s eyes again, “ _Don’t_ act like him,” he jabbed a thumb in the direction of the door, indicating that he was referring to Dumbledore, who was almost certainly not working on a crossword puzzle, “Whether you’re willing to risk my soul or my innocence or what-have-you, I am a _part of this._ I don’t care if you like it, I’m nearly of age and I deserve the _truth_.”

Pride swelled in Remus’ chest, and for the first time, his hopes for James and Lily in the mysterious After shifted. He’d always liked to envision them in Euphemia’s garden on a summer afternoon, hazy with sunlight and promise and the smell of asters in bloom, but suddenly he was seized with a mighty wish that they could see the man into which their son was growing. He entertained no thoughts of denying Harry the truth; he _did_ deserve to know, and Remus was proud that Harry valued his own role enough to know what he deserved, “Why don’t we have a seat,” Remus suggested, only a little shaking, taking a seat himself on one of the wingback sofas in the small study, “And I promise to tell you the truth, no more dithering, no more excuses.”

He did not make any promises not to abridge it, as there were a couple graphic details he suspected would only scar Harry without contributing too much to his understanding of how exactly his late godfather was hugging him just now. There would be more than enough troubling information for him to grapple with without adding their hot-and-cold romantic history to the lot. If Harry noticed that Remus did not offer an unabridged telling, he did not take issue with it, agreeing with a stern look that again echoed Lily, “Good. I need to know how angry I’ve actually got to be.”

Sirius and Harry came to sit on the sofa, Harry between them. Sirius kept one arm slung across Harry’s back as Remus explained, but intermittently his fingers would stretch away from Harry to deliver a covert and comforting touch to Remus’ shoulder. It obviously took a good deal of effort for Harry to keep from interrupting frequently, but he managed to restrain himself by and large. It was Sirius, in fact, who kept interrupting. It was the first time he and Remus had bothered to tell the whole story in its completeness, and it felt good to be united in the truth of it, to fill in some of each other’s blanks. Most revelatory of all, though, was Sirius’ interjection when Remus was describing (without too much detail) the dreams he’d had almost every time he had slept after following Sirius into the Betwixt.

“Merlin’s bollocks!” Sirius had blurted out eloquently, “So that _did_ really happen!”

“Well, no,” Remus said, “It was a dream—”

“No, _no_ ,” Sirius was impatient to exclaim, fingers brushing Remus’ arm again, “I was _there_ , not just a memory or something,” he shook his head, clearly frustrated with articulating, “I _saw_ you, and I was trying to _find you_. Reckon I did when you were sleeping, but—”

Remus’ heart thudded in his chest with the realization. He’d been desperate to believe as much as the time, that perhaps it was some true contact with Sirius from across the gulf that had divided them, but it had seemed like no more than wishful thinking, “It was you,” he said, his voice gone a bit breathless.

Sirius nodded eagerly, “Yes! I, when I was first — after I came back, when I was half-mad because I had no idea what year it was, had just been reliving all manner of things, and there were these memories of you that were the clearest, sort of, _the loudest_ ,” Remus suppressed a shiver at the memory of the eerie silence of the Betwixt, which he had only just explained to Harry moments before, Sirius confirming that for the dead it was not the same, “Only they didn’t make _sense!_ ”

“Why?” Harry asked, pushing his glasses up his nose as he had to whenever he frowned too much.

“Well, they had happened two ways, like,” Sirius said, reiterating, “Like, there was a memory of how it _happened_ , like when I lived it,but it was drowned out by another memory, which I reckon was the dreamed version.”

“How could you tell?” Remus asked, as that line had been foggy in his own head.

“Well, I was trying to _find_ you, Moony,” Sirius said, and huffed impatiently when that appeared not to clarify anything much, “In the, the _dreamed_ version, I kept trying to ask if you were dead, but I couldn’t get through to you.”

“You never—” Remus began, shaking his head,but his voice died with a croak in his throat. 

_I didn’t expect to see you again_ , Sirius had said in the first dream. _No one_ lives _here_ , he’d said, as the youth shriveled from his face and the snow in his hair had resolved itself into ashes. 

_I don’t know that it is_... he’d said in the second dream, young and achingly beautiful and doubtful that he’d really woken up, when Remus had claimed that it was in fact real life they were inhabiting.

And in the third dream, in the cottage kitchen with the smoke smell hanging in the air, Remus had told Sirius he was glad that he was alive. Remus’ blood ran cold as he understood too late Sirius’ response, the point-blank question, _Are you_? 

Are you _alive_?

“Fuck,” Remus said, and any other time he might have laughed at the way Harry’s eyes widened at hearing his former teacher swear, “Padfoot, it was _you_.”

“It was me,” Sirius confirmed, looking more relieved that troubled, now that Remus got his meaning.

“I’m never disregarding a dream again,” Remus vowed, Sirius nodded, and they had gotten on with the story.

Harry was a clever boy and though he made an obvious effort not to interrupt too much, he kept predicting the story before Remus could tell it. It was with no shortage of horror that he realized why Kreacher had been lacking an ear the last time he’d seen him before Remus could explain that bit of the story. Harry’s brilliance was no surprise, Remus had _taught him_ after all, but it was a little surprising how it applied to the parts of the story Remus was omitting, the parts of the story that intimately involved their hearts and cocks. Harry kept casting canny looks at the spot where Sirius’ fingers caressed the threadbare shoulder of Remus’ robes, and chewing the inside of his cheek when they were vague about one of their ‘discussions’. If he recognized what he was picking up on, it didn’t seem to bother him, and he did not say anything to draw attention to it. Remus realized with a surprisingly pleasant rush that he wouldn’t mind Harry knowing the truth. It had been a secret quite long enough, and when he allowed himself to imagine Sirius pardoned, he found he rather liked the idea of kissing him within sight of not only Harry, but the public.

He realized he had lost track of the conversation for a moment, and that Harry and Sirius were discussing the way that Sirius’ magic had changed. Sirius cast him a guilty glance as Harry was asking what Dumbledore had suggested. They hadn’t mentioned that part to Dumbledore at all, “You don’t have to worry yourself about that bit too much, Harry,” Remus said, “Perhaps we can try some different wands.”

Harry frowned, looking unimpressed by that suggestion. His voice was both long-suffering and optimistic as he said, “Hermione’s going to read every book she can find about necromancy and wandlore when I tell her this, I bet she’ll find something that helps.”

Sirius’ and Remus’ eyes sought each other at the same instant, “I don’t—” Remus began.

Harry groaned, “Oh, save your breath. There’s _no way_ I’m not telling them,” Remus opened his mouth again, but Harry didn’t miss his worried expression, “But Hermione’s much too clever to _try_ Dark Magic, relax.”

Sirius snorted, “I think he’s calling you daft, Moony.”

“I…” Harry smiled, almost shy, “I suppose I’m glad you are, though, given the result,” his expression grew stern, “ _No more,_ though.”

“Yes, sir, Professor,” Remus replied gamely, making Harry smile again. He smiled back, agreeing with Harry that this once it was worth it, but vowing not to attempt Dark Magic again. They talked for about an hour more, hearing about Harry’s summer, about the present dramas playing out amongst the Weasleys, before reluctantly saying their farewells, promising to owl, and being sent their separate ways by Dumbledore, whose expression did not give away how much he had eavesdropped on (though Remus suspected all of it).

They arrived back at the cottage, stumbling out of the fireplace, and Remus caught his weight against the wall. Perhaps it was a sharp drop in adrenaline, or perhaps the cumulative strain of the preceding weeks, but he felt suddenly dead on his feet. Sirius seemed to recognize the change in his attitude, because he half-dragged him to the bedroom and deposited him gently on the bed. Remus sank willingly into the mattress, allowing Sirius to remove his shoes and outer robes. He hovered on the edge of sleep but pulled himself back to the land of the living when he didn’t feel Sirius’ weight shift the tension of the bed, “Padfoot,” he said, slurring only slightly.

“Shh, get some rest, Remus,” Sirius said, adding half-encouragingly, half-teasingly, “You deserve it.”

“So do you,” Remus insisted sleepily. Sirius hummed noncommittally but if he verbalized a more direct response, Remus was drowsing again before he could hear it. He sensed more than felt the crackle of magic and the brush of fur against his side and then he slept deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left!


	9. Moments of Gold

_10 July, 1996 - 11 July, 1996_

_Remus waded through the darkness as through black water. He blinked uselessly, willing his surroundings to focus into clarity. He felt dizzy with the press of the damp, humid heat even as he shivered with the cold, trying desperately to get his bearings._

_An uneasy familiarity curdled in his stomach as he looked around. For a moment’s grim relief he believed himself to be in the Forbidden Forest, not far from the safety of Hogwarts or Hogsmeade. He looked up and his mind reeled at the blackness, no branches, no moss, no stars. No moon._

_And suddenly, with a sick sense of a key clicking along the pins of a lock, Remus knew where he was._

_A strangled cry escaped his lips._ I’m dead.

 _He had to be, there’d been no ritual this time, no potion, and yet he was here. Death was the only other door to the Betwixt. He tried to remember what had happened but reaching for his memories made the darkness swim nauseatingly around him._ No _, he resisted the pull of the Betwixt’s illusions, blocking out the watery imitation of the Shrieking Shack that was forming around him._ _He’d finally got Sirius back, there was a war to fight, he had to get back. He couldn’t afford to be ping-ponged between re-stagings of his life when it was still out there, waiting for him, promising to just maybe_ finally _be worth living._

_“Remus,” Sirius’ voice was little more than a rasp. But he was trying to get Remus’ attention, and when had Remus ever denied him? He opened his eyes._

_The sight of Sirius was a violent shock to his system, just as it had been two years prior. The Wanted posters had been everywhere, of course, but months of them couldn’t have prepared Remus for seeing Sirius in the flesh after all those years. Oh, and_ now _it was contrasted so unfavorably with the new-bodied Sirius, whose beauty (he squirmed to admit to himself) had been so very easy to grow accustomed to_.

 _But that was not the Sirius who stood before him, the ravages of Azkaban and life on the run rendering him a ragged grey that matched too well the dust and dilapidation of the Shrieking Shack. He was_ so thin _, Merlin, Remus had nearly forgotten, his frame shrunk to nearly a skeleton, swimming in the sagging rags of his Azkaban uniform_. _His hair was dull and dreadfully dirty, hanging in filthy mats that fell past his elbows. His face was the worst of it though, the bones sharp and grey eyes wary and wild. Before the Veil, he’d gained back a lot of the weight and they’d cut his hair and so forth, but his once-so-beautiful face had never lost that hunted look._

_Until Remus brought him back._

_“Remus,” he said again, “Please, you have got to listen to me.”_

_“Padfoot,” Remus said, gently, taking a step towards him. He couldn’t do anything, even if this was just a memory, even if this was a waste of time. He couldn’t leave any version or echo of Sirius so distraught, “Don’t worry, I know.”_

_“You know?” Sirius asked, his voice cracking with uncertainty, his eyes flicking anxiously to and from Remus’ face as they had in those first months._

_“You’re innocent,” Remus confirmed, keeping his voice even as if talking to a cagey animal, “Wormtail was the Secret-Keeper, he set you up.”_

_Sirius shook his head, “Not that, Moony,_ not that _,” he wrung his hands so hard the knobby knuckles turned white._

_“It’s alright, Padfoot,” Remus soothed, very lightly laying his hand over both of Sirius’._

_“_ No _,” Sirius hissed urgently, “You can’t trust him!”_

 _Remus almost laughed, an eyebrow quirking up, “Of course I don’t bloody trust him, Pads,” he reassured, “He betrayed Prongs and Lily, I_ hate _him.”_

 _“_ Not Peter _,” Sirius insisted, and somehow the use of Wormtail’s first name was sharper, more intimate, snagged Remus’ thoughts._

_“Who?” he asked, his other hand covering Sirius’._

_Sirius’ eyes met his, frenetic and sparking, but perfectly sane, “_ Me _,” he said, barely above a whisper._

_Remus’ heart stuttered, shooting cold into his veins as he staggered back from Sirius, “What?” he managed to ask._

_“N-not_ me _,” Sirius thumped his bony chest before burying a hand in the rat’s nest of his hair, the other gesturing vaguely behind Remus, “_ Him, _th-the other me.”_

“ _The… other you,” Remus repeated, scarcely hearing himself over the panic blaring in his head._

 _“H-he,” Sirius screwed his eyes shut for a second, “I know he_ looks _like me, Moony —_ fuck _, he looks like me more than I do — but it’s_ bullshit _!” His eyes opened again, imploring, “You’ve got to believe me, Remus.”_

 _Remus shook his head, more in an effort to sort his thoughts rather than to disagree. He’d doubted it himself, of course, quick to doubt anything that seemed too good to be true. But Sirius had_ proven himself _, hadn’t he? Remus found his voice, but he didn’t sound confident, “He more than looks like you, Pads. He remembers things, and he, he thinks and feels like you—”_

“ _Oh, spare me what he_ feels like _,” Sirius spat out, serrated with jealousy, “Don’t tell me you’re convinced just because he_ shags _like me.”_

_Remus blinked, icy doubt licking at him like flames. The Sirius before him, withered and angry and wearing the clothes of a prisoner, seemed too real to be some trick of the Betwixt, “It’s not… not that simple,” Remus said stupidly._

“ _Oh, Merlin fuck, of course, it’s not_ simple _,” Sirius seethed, “That’s what I’m trying to_ tell you _!” He sucked a breath in, and when he spoke again, he was obviously working hard to keep his tone even and sympathetic, “Moony,” he took a step closer, reaching out to just brush his rough fingertips against Remus’ hand, “I know you want him to be me, to be real. But Dark Magic…” his expression hardened as he shook his head, “It’s not… it doesn’t work with love.”_

 _Remus’ breath came in broken at the word, at all the truth in it he’d been resisting, “Sirius,” he said, voice cracking, “No, Sirius, I_ saved you _.”_

 _Sirius shook his head sadly, coming closer still to cup Remus’ jaw in his cold, calloused hand, “You didn’t, love. You_ can’t _,” he gave a shuddering breath, and it smelled sour, and real._

“ _Sirius,” Remus whispered desperately, his own hands cupping Sirius’ face, relishing the clammy unwashed_ realness _of him, “No,_ no, _I can’t leave you here! I—” his voice died as he pushed Sirius’ filthy mane of hair back from his face, his eyes landing on the spot where his right ear ought to have been, finding only a puckered scar._

“ _I’ll wait for you, Moony,” Sirius assured him, “I’ll always wait for you.”_

 _“I-I—” Remus drew in a painful breath and then leaned down, resting his forehead to Sirius’, wishing he could simply climb into the grey pools of his eyes and_ rest _, “What do I do?”_

_Sirius grimaced, hesitated, “He… Get rid of the imposter,” Sirius said gingerly, as if he detested the taste of the words, “And then come to me.”_

_Remus blinked down at him, ran the pad of his thumb once along the earless scar, “The Veil?” he breathed._

_Sirius nodded, “The Veil.” His eyes flickered down to Remus’ lips and Remus’ eyes fell shut as he leaned into the kiss._

He woke before their lips met, shuddering back into his own body, every muscle going rigid against the bedsheets. He cursed his body for giving him away, as he felt the imposter stir beside him. He realized he was still in his clothes, the reassuring line of his wand against his forearm. He forced his muscles to relax as he slipped it surreptitiously from his sleeve and into his hand.

Magic prickled beside him, man replacing dog, “Moony?” the imposter said in Sirius’ voice, melodic and rich as it had been in youth, “You alright?” His words were not slurred by sleep at all, of course. Remus kicked himself for his willful delusion.

“‘M’alright,” Remus murmured, trying to sound sleepy despite the fear and purpose stampeding through his veins.

“A nightmare?” the imposter asked, making his voice low and sweet just as Sirius would have. Anger flared in Remus at that; how _dare_ he use Sirius’ voice, and face — _how dare he?_ He touched Remus’ shoulder lightly and that was _too much_. Like a coil compressed and released, Remus sprang into motion, covering the imposter’s body with his own and pinning him to the bed.

“Moon—” for a fraction of a second, a naughty smile began to curl on the imposter’s too-perfect face before he felt the jab of Remus’ wand-tip against his jugular. His eyes widened and he went still, “What are you—?”

“Shut it,” Remus said, hating the quaver of his own voice, pressing his wand harder to the imposter’s alabaster throat and causing his breath to catch.

“Moony, _please_ , what’s—” he swallowed, the bob of his Adam’s apple nudging Remus’ wand as grey eyes _so_ like Sirius’ searched his face, “Let’s talk about—”

 _No_ , there was nothing he wanted to talk to this _abomination_ about, he’d only try and manipulate him. Remus didn’t have to reach deep to draw on the intent — an Unforgivable wouldn’t work without it — pressing his wand harder, “ _Avada—”_

Remus didn’t know what had happened at first to interrupt him, the wind knocked from his lungs as he collided with something, wand torn from his hand. He blinked against the dizziness of his skull bouncing off something hard, surprised to find himself across the room from the bed. He tried to move, only to discover that he was pinned to the wall by some spell. Remus blinked harder, forcing his eyes to refocus, his view of the imposter gradually becoming clearer.

He was still in the bed, sitting up now with the blankets pooled around his lap. The fingers of his left hand fluttered against his throat, where Remus’ wand had been an instant before. His right hand was held up, parallel to Remus’ body with the fingers extended fully, but not appearing strained. Remus pushed back against the wandless magic keeping him in place, but he did not budge. He tried to protest, but found his voice _Silenced_ , and could do nothing but watch as the imposter rose from the bed. He whined soundlessly and pushed harder when the imposter knelt to pick up his wand, but instead of turning it on him, he merely slipped it into his pocket and turned his attention back to Remus, struggling against the wall.

The imposter examined his face for a moment, smooth brow deeply furrowed, before moving his hand slightly, saying clearly, “ _Surgito_ ,” Remus felt the tug of the counter-curse, but he was not enchanted, so nothing much happened. The imposter frowned, a couple fingers flexing elegantly as he said, _“Imperaliberta,_ ” again, a tug as by a lasso, but no curse to be lifted. The imposter quirked his lips to the side in an expression that _so_ belonged to Sirius that it infuriated Remus to see it on his face. The imposter seemed to detect his distress, and cast the other counter-curses one after the other, channeling them with apparent ease without the conduit of a wand, “ _Finite incantatem. Offero. Servus exolvo._ ” He canted his head to one side, looking for a change in Remus’ demeanor, and seeing none, swore just as Sirius might have, “Merlin-buggering fuck,” he ran his left hand through his hair, and met Remus’ eyes as he explained, “I’m going to lift the Silencing Charm and we’re going to talk, and please, for the love of Circe, be c-cooperative.”

Remus was mid-sentence when the charm lifted, “—going to fall for it anymore!”

“Great start,” the imposter said, and his voice betrayed anxiety that he had no right feeling in his position, “Let’s begin with the obvious, why did you attack me?”

“You’re an imposter!” Remus’ voice was shrill and it made his interrogator’s eyes widen, “You’re not really Sirius! I — it’s my fault you exist, my mistake, and I—”

“Have to get rid of me? How bloody poetic,” the imposter didn’t seem amused, his voice flat despite his wry words. His jaw was working hard, his eyes bright, “I’m not an _imposter_ , Remus. Just yesterday Dumbledore confirmed I was myself, don’t you remember?”

A tremor of doubt inched down Remus’ neck, “I — he’s been wrong before!”

The imposter shrugged one shoulder, “I suppose that’s true,” he conceded, “But… don’t you reckon it’d be better to get a second opinion before _AK_ -ing me?” the imposter’s voice cracked over the last few words, but he hardly winced at it, “You’ve been wrong before, too, Moony.”

 _Fuck,_ well, imposter or not, he had a point. Remus squirmed, reluctant against the way he was questioning himself. He clung to the words Sirius had spoken to him in the Betwixt, “You’re just trying to manipulate me.”

The imposter barked out Sirius’ laugh, that sudden bark just a little unstable, “You tried to fucking _kill_ me, Moony,” he said, and _Merlin_ , he sounded so much like Sirius, “Must have been some bad fucking dream.”

“It wasn’t a dream!” Remus snarled and something in the imposter’s eyes flashed.

“No?” he asked, tone almost mocking, “Then what happened? Hm? You were in bed the whole time!”

“My _body_ was, maybe, but I- _I_ was in the Betwixt!” Remus half-shouted, feeling impotent and impatient, “With the _real Sirius_ , you bastard, and he explained everything!”

“Did he?” the imposter asked tightly.

“He did!”

“And how do you know you were with him in the Betwixt,” the imposter asked, monotone, “And not dreaming?”

Remus groaned, “You know already! The dreams I had before were really him!”

“The dreams you had before were really _me_!” The imposter’s voice cracked badly as he indicated himself with his left hand flat against his sternum, his eyes glittering tearfully, “Y-you _idiot_ , _I’m_ the one who told you the dreams were real, because I was _there_ , because _I’m Sirius!_ ”

Remus’ indignance guttered out, as the logic of what the imposter — Sirius? — was saying took root in his head, “But—”

“And were you in the Betwixt, or just in a memory,” the man went on, in increasing hysteria, “Because just yesterday _you_ explained to Harry that when you went in to find me, there wasn’t any sound at all, and I’d be _bloody gobsmacked_ if this _other Sirius_ somehow convinced you I was a fake while being totally _mute!_ ”

“Fuck,” Remus said, almost soundlessly, as Sirius — because of-bloody-course he _was_ Sirius — sucked in a breath that was halfway to a sob, “ _Fuck, fuck, Sirius,_ ”

“Finally recognize me?” Sirius demanded, though there was no mistaking the way his features slackened slightly with relief. Only slightly.

“Yes, yes, I do, _fuck_ ,” Remus could have sworn the magic Sirius was using to hold him to the wall had gotten tighter, because it was getting harding by the second to draw a breath. He was swearing on reflex, at this point, not even quite sure of what he was saying. He fell to the floor and realized Sirius had released him, but the tightness of his chest hadn’t loosened a bit, “Sirius,” he looked to him for explanation, finding him sitting on the ground as well, the silvery orb of a Shield Charm around him as he watched Remus with a mix of concern and wariness.

“Are you having a panic attack?” he asked, with weird detachment.

Remus gave a sharp gasp that was meant to be a chuckle, “Reckon so,” he managed to say, “ _Fuck_ ,”

“Breathe in and count to four,” Sirius said flatly, as Remus struggled to slow his breathing. When he’d finally managed a four-second inhale, Sirius said, “Count to four on the exhale. One-two-three-four. And in, one-two-three-four.” They had learned the technique in 1979, when panic attacks were all too common amongst their Order compatriots. Remus himself had re-familiarized Sirius with it, when he’d needed it on occasion after Azkaban. He stopped guiding Remus, allowed him to calm himself.

Remus lifted his eyes to Sirius reluctantly. He had fended off the irrational panic response of his body, but his mind was still in chaos. Sirius’ expression was guarded, unreadable, and he didn’t quite meet Remus’ eyes, “Sirius, I’m so sorry,” Remus said, his voice shorn and raw.

“You don’t trust me, Remus,” Sirius said, and it wasn’t a question, just a statement of bare fact. Remus opened his mouth to protest, but Sirius met his eyes then, and it made his voice die in his throat, “You tried to _kill me._ ”

“I do trust you,” Remus insisted feebly, “I-I didn’t think you were _you_.”

“I know I haven’t always had the firmest grasp of reality, myself,” Sirius said, one hand nervously fiddling with the ends of his hair, “But Remus…”

“You’re right,” Remus said, shame burning his face as he clambered shakily to his feet, “You’re right, I-I should go—”

“It’s your bloody house,” Sirius said, rising to his feet with more grace than Remus had done, his Shield Charm following him, “I’ll go.”

“ _No!_ ” the word flew from Remus’ mouth in a desperate plea, without his permission. Sirius’ passive expression was cracking as through the silvery sheen of the shield he watched Remus try to compose himself. He’d given Sirius ample reason to leave, he admitted to himself, asked instead, “Go— Where will you go?”

Sirius trembled for a second before his poker-face folded, “Fuck, Remus,” he buried his hands in his hair, shield wavering slightly as he sucked in a whistling breath, “I don’t want to _go anywhere_ ,” his grey eyes roved over Remus in blatant worry, “You’re… not well, I can’t just _leave_.”

Remus bristled under the reasoning, “Cheers,” he said defensively, “I don’t need your pity.”

Sirius tugged his hair, scoffed impatiently, “It’s not _pity_ , you git, it’s _love,_ ” he scowled, “You stuck by me after Azkaban when I was a bloody _wreck_ , I owe you the same loyalty.”

Remus groaned, “Great, not pity, just a sense of _debt_. Sirius, you don’t owe me _shit_.”

“I want to be here,” Sirius said stubbornly, holding Remus’ gaze as he dropped the Shield Charm with a flick of his hand, “Look, I… I know I’m different,” he lifted his hand as if to indicate the wandless magic that seemed to be coming much easier than the off-kilter _lumos_ he’d managed with Remus’ wand, “And… and you’re different, too. And that scares me bloody witless, to tell you the truth, but I’m sticking by you and if I have to fend off a delusional _Avada Kedavra_ now and again, so be it.”

“That is not funny,” Remus said, shaking his head decisively.

“Good, because I wasn’t joking,” Sirius said, then dropped his voice a little softer, approaching Remus by barely a half-step, “Nothing’s getting between us ever again. That’s what we said, and that’s sure as fuck not a joke either.”

Sirius’ words were sweet and reassuring, but Remus couldn’t let himself latch onto them. They were what he longed to hear, yes, but not what he deserved. Not by a long shot. It was still sinking in, the way he hadn’t hesitated to press his wand to the sacred flow of Sirius’ lifeblood — the same that he’d risked and sacrificed so much to _restore —_ had looked down at his astonished fear with total detachment. He realized he was shivering and wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing his upper arms hard enough to bruise, “I would’ve saved us all a load of trouble if I’d just followed you through the Veil like I’d wanted to. _Should have_.”

“ _Don’t_ , please,” Sirius said, hoarsely, hand clamping down on Remus’ shoulder, “Don’t get all self-pitying and _don’t_ ,” his voice cracked, “Even talk like that.”

“That’s what you,” Remus cringed, making eye contact with the top of Sirius’ head, “ _He_ , the you in my dream, that’s what he told me to do… fuck.”

Sirius stiffened, his other hand finding Remus’ other shoulder, his voice adamant and sensitive as he said softly, “I would _never_ , Remus. Not in a million years, even if it was the only way to stay together. I,” his right hand slid from the ball of Remus’ shoulder to the side of his neck and jaw, tilting his head so that he was powerless against the magnetism of Sirius’ eyes. They gleamed with tears, and love, and honesty, and he repeated thickly, “You _need_ to know that, Remus, I would _always_ want you to _live_.”

Perhaps it was selfish, but it didn’t much feel like it, as Remus leaned down slightly to close the distance between them, pressing his lips gently to Sirius’ in a sincere kiss, “I do know that, I know,” he said when their lips parted, nuzzling the tip of his nose against Sirius’ cheek, “I’m sorry, Sirius, I’m _so_ sorry. I’m out of my mind, in fact, I think I _must be_ ,” Sirius leaned up on his toes to kiss Remus again as Remus murmured against his lips that he knew. This kiss was a little bit deeper, their lips sliding wet and soft, sucking slightly with an eagerness for life, “You’re better than me,” Remus said, heartsick, when they parted for breath, “So much better. I think I would have done anything to bring us together again.”

Sirius’ arms wrapped around his ribs and pulled him into an embrace, and he was quick to hug him back. They held each other in silence for a moment, before Sirius asked, breath warm against the crook of Remus’ neck, “...Do you regret it?”

“What?” Remus asked.

“Do you regret it?” Sirius repeated, “You seem ashamed that you would have done anything, it stands to reason you might wish you hadn’t…” he hesitated a second, “It’s driven you half-mad, and turned you half-Dark, and I’m not…” another pause, concluded delicately, “What you expected,” Remus hummed, “Do you regret it?”

Remus wanted to deny it out of hand, wanted to confidently and without doubt proclaim that he had made the right decision. But Sirius was not asking for empty platitudes, he wanted and deserved the truth. For a few minutes, Remus sifted through his muddled feelings, through the last days, weeks, the whole mixed-up lifetime of loving, and hating, and needing Sirius, of loving, and hating, and needing himself. He’d never known anything in life to come without its cost, and that had always been true of him and Sirius, truer now than ever. But what of the cost? Would he rather have back his sanity, or his dubious purity, and live out whatever short years remained to him mourning Sirius, haunted by the image of him disappearing beyond the Veil? Would he trade Harry’s time with his godfather, the Order’s access to one of its most gifted wizards, the world’s chance to know of Sirius’ innocence, all for what _he_ had given up?

“No,” Remus said, before he realized quite how deeply certain he was, “No, Padfoot, I don’t regret it.”

He felt Sirius smile against his neck, not a broad happy smile, but just a small private one. He’d always loved those nearly better than the big smiles, the little ones only he got to see. When Sirius drew his head back from Remus’ shoulder, there it was, and it was beautiful, but already it was fading into a different expression, thoughtful and defiant, “Well,” he said, “If you don’t regret it, and I’m telling you now that _I_ don’t regret it… what does it matter if we’re Dark or we’re _different_? I’m not belittling the harm we’ve done,” he pointed out, though it sounded like an aside, “It’s just that much more _good_ we’ve got to do to make up for it,” before Remus could address that questionable take on morality, Sirius forged on, voice impassioned, “I’m still _me_ , Remus, and you’re still _you._ Enough to be in love, anyway, enough to see that we’re getting a _third_ bloody chance here. The universe doesn’t much fancy giving those out, and who knows how long we’ve even got… can’t we just make the most of it?”

Remus felt the Darkness shift. He had grown so accustomed to its weight that he had almost forgotten that it hadn’t always been there. He had dragged it around on his back, like some sort of Medieval torture device, like a cloak of iron and at times had tugged it close around him, mistaking it for a security blanket. And it did not vanish, that was not the way of Dark, ancient magic. But it did shiver and shift, it did press upon him less heavily and it _made room_ as if it sensed his intention to do better and aim towards the Light, “Fuck it,” he said, a bit breathless as he looked down at the hungry, reckless hope on Sirius’ face, “You’re right,” he said, one hand holding Sirius’ waist tighter while the other moved to grip his nape, “Let’s give it a go.”

Sirius’ mouth had just enough time to spread into a dazzling grin before Remus’ mouth covered it. If he minded, he took no pains to say so, humming approvingly, every muscle pressing meltingly nearer to Remus. Sirius’ mouth was a miracle to him; it always had been. Beautiful for starters, though that went without saying, but more remarkably holding endless talents. That the same mouth could hold the ability to laugh so infectiously, to quip so cleverly, to speak kindness or cruelty with equal eloquence, to swear like a sailor, to hurl searing curses, or cast the gentlest Healing Charms Remus had ever encountered, or the most brilliantly-executed joke hexes. And to _kiss_ , to bloody kiss as though he were a drowning man and Remus’ mouth was his only hope of drawing breath, to make the drag of his silken tongue so indulgent it nearly erased the memory of all other kisses and Remus was fourteen again and never-kissed, to make his lips pliant or demanding with that tremendous duality that imbued everything he did.

Remus had just enough presence of mind to wonder briefly if that was what had drawn them together, for certainly there was no end to the duality within himself. But then Sirius was apparently reading his mind, hearing the litany of praise to his mouth’s many talents, because he was breaking the kiss and dropping down to his knees. Remus’ cock was already hard, straining against yesterday’s trousers, but for once in his life, there was something he wanted _more_ than he wanted Sirius on his knees, “No, Pads,” he said, gently enough that it couldn’t be misconstrued as upset or rejection.

Sirius looked up at him and even despite the not-dire tone of Remus’ voice, a shadow of worry flickered across his face, “Remus?” he asked, and on his tongue the word held flirtation, playfulness, vulnerability, and yes, concern, too.

“‘S’alright,” Remus assured him at once, stroking Sirius’ cheek with one hand and feeling his heart swell at the way he leaned into the touch, “I’d just rather have you in bed.”

Sirius grinned in a way that was half wicked, and half sweet, grabbing Remus’ hand and all but dragging him towards the bed. He set to work straight away, hands flying nimbly down the buttons of Remus’ shirt, unbuckling his belt and making quick work of trousers, pushing everything off of Remus’ body with an air of keen efficiency. Once Remus had not a stitch on, Sirius moved to discarding his own clothes, and rather than interrupt, Remus perched on the edge of the bed and watched as inch after tempting inch of Sirius’ luminous skin was revealed to him. As Sirius stood on one foot to yank off a sock, his last garment, Remus smirked to himself and took advantage of one of Sirius’ rare wobbly moments and tugged his arm, causing him to lose his balance and fall across the bed with a surprised ‘ _oof_!’

“Hey!” Sirius scolded, without a bit of bite in it, a smile overtaking his expression already as he rolled onto his side and swept a curtain of dark hair off his face, “That wasn’t very sportsmanlike,”

“Apologies,” Remus said airily, lowering himself onto the bed so that his face wound up by Sirius’ knees and Sirius’ face by his, “I’ll try to be a better sport.”

Sirius propped himself up on one elbow, raising an eyebrow and looking sidelong down at Remus, a bemused smirk playing across his lips, “Is that change of heart something to do with why you’re all the way over there?”

Remus hummed as if deep in thought, his eyes never leaving Sirius’ face even as his hand strayed up Sirius’ thigh. He watched rapturously as Sirius’ expression changed before his eyes, brows pitching upward in that heartfelt, almost-sad way that they did to express _longing_ , eyelids fluttering as white teeth pressed into the soft pink of his lip. Remus had had every intention of continuing their flirty repartee, but the silliness that had seized them with surprising ease fled as suddenly as it had come. He pressed a kiss to Sirius’ left kneecap, right on the spot where for the dozen years between Fourth Year and the Veil there had been a pinkish blotch of scar tissue, courtesy of a Hogwarts Bludger. His fingers brushed the velvety skin of Sirius’ balls, and he rested his cheek against the now-scarless knee, admitting honestly, “If it’s alright, Pads, I just don’t think I could bear having you _below me_ just now.”

He half-expected Sirius to tease him, to point out that he’d always seemed to enjoy it in the past, but the unguarded expression on his face gave way to an almost indulgent smile. He nodded, voice hushed as he reassured, “Of course, Moons,” he scooted down the bed slightly, unabashedly bringing both of their faces nearer to each other’s groins, his gaze tracing Remus’ leaking cock as he said earnestly, “Can’t imagine anywhere I’d rather be.”

The tender sentiment warmed Remus more than it might have at another time, but there was a fragile, frightened part of him that was still quivering like a leaf in the wake of his dream and subsequent, nearly disastrous, delusion. _Of course_ , this was the real Sirius, lambent grey eyes peering at him through soot-dark lashes and lips curling in an incongruously cute smile as soft fingers loosely wrapped around him. The pad of Sirius’ thumb swept across the head, sliding wetly across the sensitized skin and pulling a sigh from Remus. Sirius made a small sound, and it took Remus a second too long to realize that it was in response to the sigh, his hot breath having gusted tantalizingly against Sirius’ own erection.

At another time he may have been perfectly content to simply lay back and watch Sirius slowly lavish attention on his cock, but had he been in that mood, he would have let Sirius suck him on his knees on the other side of the room. No, much as he was throbbing for Sirius’ touch, he ached even more deeply with a need to _give_ pleasure just now than to seek it. He couldn’t have put into words the reassurance, the apology of it, the reminder to both of them that he wanted Sirius to be here, that in him Sirius could find safety and pleasure. Remus’ eyes trailed down Sirius’ body, from the talented mouth that hovered teasingly close to his own cock, along the sharp line of the jaw, along the gracefully symmetrical swoop of the collarbone, down the toned chest and belly, dusted with dark hair, to the perfect v-shape formed by his hips and beloved cock, jutting desperately and dripping just for him. Remus’ palm slid up the outside of Sirius’ thigh, twisting their bodies nearer and sitting up slightly to kiss the very corner of his hipbone, skin soft beneath his lips. Sirius sighed, breath tickling Remus’ balls just as Remus’ sigh had him, as Remus dragged his teeth along Sirius’ skin, soothing the path with flat, slow swipes of his tongue. That alone had Sirius panting, member twitching in anticipation.

Never one to be outdone, though, or perhaps trying to urge Remus into speeding up, Sirius’ tongue swirled around the head of Remus’ cock. Remus groaned against Sirius’ skin. He made no complaint as Sirius’ mouth closed around him, suckling with very little pressure and teasing him, but he had every intention of taking this slow. He nudged Sirius’ thighs apart and he gamely rested one foot flat against the bed to grant him access. Remus moved along the heated skin of Sirius’ thigh, kissing, licking, nibbling, relishing the small vibrations of Sirius’ reactions around him. He steered carefully clear of the parts of Sirius that so dearly needed his attention, until a swipe of his tongue came exquisitely near to Sirius’ balls and Sirius’ hips arched, seeking contact, his mouth contracting finally around Remus. He had been sliding his mouth with a wet, filthy passivity along Remus’ length, which truthfully felt bloody great, but now he gave a proper suck and Remus smirked triumphantly at getting Sirius to give in first in this contest of wills in which both of them were ultimately winners.

Taking mercy on Sirius a little, now that Sirius was sucking him like he meant it, Remus buried his nose a little deeper in the heady muskiness at the juncture of his thighs. He ran his tongue quickly along the cleft of his arse, the tip just grazing the dry pucker of his hole, his perineum, to flutter against his balls. Sirius moaned around him, but he didn’t miss the frustrated edge to it, as he’d intentionally gone too fast for Sirius to really savor it. It was his turn to moan as Sirius began to bob his head with more gusto, and some of his determination to tease Sirius evaporated as the heat rose in his blood. He craned his neck again, his tongue seeking out the same path, lingering longer, prodding and stroking at Sirius’ hole, pressing his tongue hard along the enticing sensitivity behind his balls and finally reaching his sack again, this time sucking one bollock greedily into his mouth. Sirius made such a heart-stopping sound at that that Remus couldn’t hold back a small thrust of his hips, and suddenly any plans to take things slow were forgotten.

Remus’ hand followed his tongue’s example, tracing along the wet trail he’d left before concentrating on Sirius arse, teasing and caressing the ring of his entrance. Sirius was sucking him now with that hungry insistence, like when he kissed like he was drowning. His cock, still-denied, was dribbling precum on Remus’ chest as he worshipped his balls, but he couldn’t stand it anymore, needed the hot weight of it in his mouth. No longer entertaining illusions of teasing, without warning, he swallowed it to the root in one. His own cock fell from Sirius’ mouth for a moment as he cried out at being so suddenly engulfed in the heat of Remus, “Moony,” he managed, voice hoarse and needy, before he was sucking again with renewed vigor.

It had never been a position that they’d particularly favored, but in that moment Remus couldn’t imagine _why not_. There was a thrilling synchrony to it, their mouths striving in tandem, seeking to _give_ and _give_ and _give_ deeper pleasure. There was an equality and a balance to it that Remus could feel like a balm to his soul, could feel — or else imagined he could feel — it easing the doubt and fear from Sirius as well. Remus lost himself to the symmetry of it, feeling as he only had on rare occasions when making love to Sirius, the flow of magic equalizing between them, entering Sirius the way that rain poured from the clouds and entering Remus the way that steam rose from the sea.

Sirius surprised Remus by performing a silent lubrication charm, and around Sirius’ cock he gasped a reverent chuckle as his finger slid with sudden ease into Sirius’ arse. The heat and softness of him went beyond that of his body; it was an allowance of Remus to curl deeper into the very _being_ of him. Sirius’ hips had been undulating languidly, as were Remus’ own, but with the finger now probing him, shrinking the distance between their spirits and locating his prostate in no time despite the unusual angle — Remus didn’t think he’d ever needed so dearly to give Sirius pleasure — he began thrusting with a new keenness.

Miraculously, rather than _distract_ Sirius from the cock in his mouth, though, this heightened pleasure seemed only to inspire him to give Remus that much more in return. It wasn’t just in his head, he knew Sirius felt it too, the tender equipoise of worship and reverence, giving and receiving, indulgence and indulging. Sirius sucked with new intensity, took him deeper and faster, his tongue twisting around him in ways that had Remus’ breath coming fast and hard through his nose. He followed Sirius’ lead — though who could say who was leading, when a circle has neither beginning nor end — his tongue laving over Sirius with decadence as he pressed a second finger into him, and he felt Sirius’ throat twitch against his head before allowing him entry. Remus’ hips snapped forward, thrusting into Sirius’ throat, marveling at how even the guttural sound of that was beautiful to him. Every sound that rose from them, every sensation, every wisp of intangible magic that wound around them, was music.

Sirius’ orgasm took him by surprise and he felt it around his fingers first, his arse clenching around him — fluttering with fragility and strength at once that Remus marveled to witness — before he spilled into Remus’ mouth. Remus swallowed eagerly, not wanting to lose any, wanting to drink it every drop of this sacred union. He sucked Sirius through it even while he forced his own hips to slow. Sirius was having _none_ of that, though, wrapping an arm around Remus’ backside, fingertips digging into one buttock to egg Remus on as he pulling him nearer so his nose pressed into Remus’ belly. Remus’ head swam to be so wanting, so invited, so embraced, nearly coming from Sirius’ eagerness alone. He let go of Sirius’ hip, reaching down to cradle the back of his head as he thrust deeply into Sirius’ throat. Sirius had confided in him once, a bit abashed, that he _enjoyed_ it and Remus hoped to Merlin that that was still true, but he could feel that it was, feel not only his heightened emotion but Sirius’, not to mention how Sirius was meeting his thrusts and squirming back against the fingers still lazily fingering his arse.

Remus’ climax was fast approaching and he pressed his face to the comforting warm damp of Sirius’ lap, lips panting against his thigh and softening cock, his own voice rasping as he innanely moaned out, “Oh, oh Sirius _oh,_ ” right before burying himself to the hilt and coming straight down Sirius’ throat. As the world wheeled around him hazily and post-coital lassitude weighed down his limbs, he withdrew himself from Sirius’ mouth, Sirius’ labored breathing cool against the mixed wetness on his skin. Much as his body wished to melt and become one with the mattress, Remus needed Sirius more. In one less than graceful movement, he repositioned himself, flipping to the other side of the bed so that he and Sirius were face to face again.

Sirius was a mess, and still he had to be the most beautiful sight eyes had ever beheld. Flyaway hairs were plastered to the sweat on his brow and temples, there was snot, and spit, and cum on his face, and his cheeks were flushed red. His mouth, too, was swollen and red. His eyes were shut, eyelashes wet as tears streamed slowly from beneath the translucent pink of his eyelids. A deeply rooted ache surged behind Remus’ ribs, and he could hardly stand how much he treasured this man, “Hey,” he said, broken-voiced, touching Sirius’ cheekbone gently with his fingertips, “Alright?” Sirius nodded weakly but did not open his eyes, though he did nuzzle slightly, heart-breakingly, against Remus’ palm.

Remus chewed his lip, waiting another second before reaching over the side of the bed and fumbling in Sirius’ discarded robes for his wand. Once he had it, he summoned a flannel and a mug. He filled it with water with a quick _Aguamenti_ , wetting the flannel while he was at it and setting the filled mug on the nightstand before leaning back over Sirius. He hadn’t moved as far as Remus could tell, and before Remus’ eyes another tear welled up and rolled down his temple and disappeared into his hair, but some of the alarmingly bright color had drained from his cheeks.

He flinched slightly when the damp flannel touched his face. Remus drew back, but one of Sirius’ hands found his and drew it back to his cheek. Remus began gently stroking his face with the flannel, his heart aching with the beginnings of worry even as he felt full with the tender satisfaction of making the beautiful, beloved face clean. After a few seconds, Sirius hummed appreciatively and his fucked-red lips curved into a smile. After a moment, his eyes blinked open, slightly glazed but alert, locking with Remus’ at once. His smile turned cheeky as he rasped, “Thank you, Nurse.”

Remus exhaled a laugh, feeling the welcome rush of relief he did any time Sirius drifted a little far after sex when he was back, “Are you alright?” he asked just the same.

Sirius nodded, “Brilliant,” he corrected, cleared his throat roughly.

“Have some water,” Remus suggested, grabbing the mug and offering it to Sirius, who gratefully gulped down more than half of it. Remus drank the rest and set the empty mug aside. Sirius had perked up a little but still appeared lethargic, but there was no real harm in that. Remus used the flannel to gingerly clean both their bodies up a little before dropping it unceremoniously on the floor and allowing himself to sink back onto the bed. They lay for a few moments in silence, breath slowing, their intertwinedness relaxing slightly, as though the force that sewed them together was allowing the thread some slack. Remus tried to remain in the sweetness, but he could not. His voice was grave as he said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Sirius wrinkled his nose, “Don’t be,” he insisted, “That was bloody brilliant, you know I’d have stopped you if it was too much.”

Remus frowned, curling his knees up a little closer to his chest, “No, Pads, I… I mean, sorry for earlier.”

Sirius tutted, but didn’t seem to know what to say. Small wonder, it wasn’t every day one found themselves in that particular conversational quandary, “Remus, I love you,” he settled on, in lieu of an empty ‘ _It’s alright_.’

“I know, but—” Remus began.

“Things are going to be far from perfect,” he went on, snorted, “They never were with us. I have no illusions about that.”

Remus chanced a glance up at his face, marveling as he often had at how jarring it could be, feeling so large and in control during sex, only to find that in reality he was still small and powerless, “There’s a lot of room between ‘ _perfect_ ’ and ‘ _trying to kill each other because a dream told us to_ ’, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, of course, but we’ll figure that out together,” Sirius said, sounding so sure of it, “We’ve always had a lot of strikes against us, Moons, that’s nothing new,” he plucked at the sheet between them and his voice was not as steady when he said, “I thought we’d agreed to giving it a shot…?”

“We did, love, we did,” Remus said, the endearment slipping out easily as endearments rarely did between them. He saw the corner of Sirius’ lip twitch upward at hearing it, “I’m not reneging on that, I… I just feel like an idiot. Or a lunatic. Or probably both.”

Sirius wrapped his arms around him and for a second Remus expected more reassurances, perhaps another pleasant dismissal of his worries, but he was grateful when Sirius offered none. They were probably mad, they both knew that. But better to be mad together than apart. They lay in strangely easy silence for an interminable time, and Remus drifting drowsily in the comfort of Sirius’ arms. He startled slightly when Sirius spoke, “Hey, Moony?”

“Hm?” he asked groggily.

“Will you pierce my ear again?” he asked seriously, sounding almost as determined about it as he had at fifteen.

Remus couldn’t help but laugh, “I reckon you could do it yourself, seeing as you appear to no longer require a wand at all.”

He felt Sirius’ smile against his temple, “Yeah, I… I’m not going to _thank you_ for giving me a chance to discover that, but…” Remus was grateful for that; there was no way he’d stand for being _thanked_ , “But anyway, no,” Sirius went on, “I-I want you to do it,” his voice dropped lower, “I was always happy, you know, that it was you that did it.”

Remus had always felt the same. Hearing Sirius echo it sent a lazy wave of heat rushing southward in Remus’ body, but he was too comfortable and too near to sleep to entertain it, “Alright,” he said, happy as he’d ever been to give Sirius what he wanted, “In the morning,”

“It is the morning, technically,” Sirius pointed out. Remus didn’t bother arguing with him, he was probably right. It had been late afternoon when they’d left Hogwarts and he didn’t think he’d slept very long, but they’d been awake for a few very strenuous hours. Rather than respond, Remus just drew closer to Sirius. Sirius didn’t seem to mind leaving the conversation at that, hugging Remus to him and making a small happy sound.

Remus didn’t know for how long he dozed, but brilliant daylight from the window was spilling into the room when he woke up. He cleared his throat and said, as if the conversation had only been abandoned for a few seconds and not a few hours, “I’ve still got your earring,” Sirius didn’t respond, and he clarified, “The gold one I made you back at school.”

Still Sirius said nothing, and a bolt of sudden terror flashed through Remus. He sat up, his skin peeling away from the sticky heat where he and Sirius had been pressed together. The irrational fear that Sirius was dead (which wasn’t _too_ irrational, given the unique circumstances of his being alive at all) was quashed at once, pleasant surprise taking its place. Sirius was very obviously _asleep_. His mouth was open and drooling ever so slightly at one corner, his chest rising and falling in slow deep rhythm, his eyes moving beneath his eyelids now and then. Remus hoped he was having a good dream, the sort that doesn’t blur at all with one’s real waking life, does not challenge it, does not hurt.

Sirius gave a soft snore and Remus smiled fondly. They had thought Sirius could no longer sleep, but here he was, unmistakably out like a light. They had thought Sirius’ magic was crippled, but as it turned out, it was stronger than ever. Merlin, they had thought Sirius was gone, but here he was, very much alive. There was so much that remained unknown, uncertain, and instead of being frightened by that, instead of feeling it gnaw anxiously at him, Remus found himself oddly comforted by it. It was that much more that they could figure out together, that much more that _just might_ turn out _well_. He could still feel the iron-heavy drag of the Darkness at the corners of the room, just past the edge of his peripheral vision, but all the Darkness in the world couldn’t blot out the Light that flickered with incautious hope between himself and Sirius. He lay back down, curling around Sirius protectively, feeling the Light between them glow optimistically within the shelter of their love. He looped at arm over Sirius’ waist, the Darkness retreating slightly from the sweet flare of Light as he sank back into sleep.

  
  


_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from ['It's All Coming Back To Me Now'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8xTZIOAPhs), which is a great song in its own right and was originally inspired by the destructive and self-destructive love of Cathy and Heathcliff in 'Wuthering Heights', but wound up sounding more hopeful than bleak, if you ask me.
> 
> Thank you again to the mods, the lovely folks in the Discord, my beloved beta [KittyCargo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyCargo/pseuds/KittyCargo/works?fandom_id=136512) , and everyone who has taken the time to read, comment, and leave kudos!


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